When Papa Bear Met Baby Bear
by Gunney
Summary: Two of Hogan's men are on a mission that goes wrong. But when they are finally returned safe and sound to the stalag they have a new friend with them.
1. Chapter 1

The rumble of the tanks, clattering along the road, grinding any stray bits of stone or sand into dust, was unlike any other. It was like a summer thunderstorm, or the sound of an approaching tornado. You never forgot that sound.

Personally Carter kinda liked the sound. Of the tanks anyway. The heavy _clank-clank-clank-clank_ of the treads knocking against one another, the hydraulic hum of the turrets, the squeal of the gears. The whole thing was so simple, and yet, in all its simplicity, deadly. It was like standing real close to the tracks when a freight train went by.

"You mind not smilin' so much, Carter. You're supposed to be daft, but not _that_ daft." Newkirk chided softly beside him, hitching up the stocking on his left leg for the fifteenth time.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I like tanks. And I'd rather look at the tanks, then you." Carter sniped then turned his attention to the basket of loaves of bread that he carried, aligning the top loaf and squeezing once he judged one of the passing armored vehicles to be in position. The loaf of bread clicked obediently.

Newkirk finished fiddling with his stockings and gave Carter a dirty look. "That's a fine way to speak to your dear ol' mum." He groused then slipped into his old frau voice. "After all the sacrifices I've made for you, you'd think I'd have a grateful, kind boy. But nooo…"

Newkirk went on complaining, fussing with the wig and winking at one of the soldiers marching alongside the tanks. The private had made the mistake of staring too long at the curiously ugly old woman and he gave a repulsed sneer when Newkirk smiled fetchingly in return.

Once the soldier had passed Newkirk sneered right back. "There's another ungrateful louse." He muttered in his own voice, then went back to watching the tanks and half-tracks roll by.

They weren't the only citizens on the street of course. The parade of men and machines had drawn most of the children and women from the houses and businesses. It wasn't a gay occasion, and there was little good expected to come from an influx of hungry soldiers marching into town but it was a break from the monotony.

For Newkirk and Carter it was a chance to get exact numbers, photos, and locations through the underground to London so that this particular Eastern Front-bound unit could be blown to smithereens before they got there.

"Now, Mama." Carter said, snapping a few more photos before craning his neck to judge just how many more vehicles were coming.

Newkirk followed his line of sight, then slapped at one of Carter's wrists, earning a surprised look and an, "Ow!"

"Stop squeezing the bread, Sonny." Newkirk warned, in character, then pointed at the crowd of overgrown Hitler Youth who had once again focused their attention on the two disguised POWs.

The group had been following them around town most of the morning, hanging back, but clearly intending to make the "old woman" and her son the target of mischief.

Carter gave Newkirk a look of consternation, about to remind him that the hidden camera was in the bread and he didn't have a choice but to squeeze it. Then he remembered that the phrase was code for the mission ending.

"But I love the way it feels, Mama! Can't I just have a taste?" Carter begged, his voice taking on an unattractive whine that caused at least one woman on the street to wrinkle her nose in their direction.

Carter put out his arm and Newkirk linked his wrist over the American's, tottering slowly up the street. "Now, sonny. Those things are meant for your dear father, who's stuck in bed. You keep squeezing those loaves and he'll think I'm serving him pancakes. You know how your father hates pancakes."

The patter continued as the two headed down the sidewalk, going slow enough for Newkirk's old woman act to be believable. His stockings were falling down again, but both men were suddenly more than a little anxious to get out of town, so Newkirk let them fall.

When he felt the rolled-up cuff of his black pants start to give way, however, he pushed Carter into the nearest alley and ran to the other end. Once they were able to duck out of sight of the main road, Newkirk leaned against the cold brick and nodded to his partner.

"Dig that camera out and let's get back to camp." Newkirk ordered, and ripped the dress up and over his head taking the wig and glasses with it as he did.

Carter set down the basket and scattered bread crumbs digging for the small camera stuffed into the top loaf. Newkirk was tossing handfuls of moldy bread from the basket to get to the map and papers hidden on the bottom, and flashed the American with looks of annoyance when the crumbs landed in the space he was clearing.

He marked the maps quickly, drawing red circles around the fields outside Hammelburg where the tanks would be resting for the next week, then tucked them into a waterproof package that would go inside the lining of the coat Carter was wearing.

Newkirk was in the process of ripping Carter's coat off when he heard the male voices behind him and froze.

"Didn't I tell you, Franz? That little old lady had too nice of legs to be so frail looking."

"You were right, 'Dolf." Another voice cooed. "She isn't an old lady at all. But a man. A nancy man, too."

Newkirk tried to relax the set to his shoulders, and resettled the coat on Carter's back, intentionally squeezing down hard for a moment. Relax, the move said. Relax and we'll get out of this.

"You spilled some of your bread, Nancy boy." Dolf said.

"Yah, you're very skinny, Nancy. You shouldn't throw away good bread."

The maps were still in the basket, plain as day if anyone bothered to get close enough to look. The Englander didn't know for sure where the camera was but he turned slowly to face what he hoped was only two uniformed men. Instead there were five Hitler-Jugend standing just inside the mouth of the narrow corridor that branched off the alley.

"Aww," The tallest of the five said, his face contorting into what was probably meant to be a look of pity. "Don't look so frightened, little man. We just wanted to help you with your basket."

One of the Hitler Youth, a brown haired young man that looked too big for his age, had already picked up one of the pieces of bread. The tall one bent to do the same, making a face at the large spots of mold that covered the underside of the loaf.

From where he stood twenty feet away, Newkirk could see that only two of the five were armed, the guns holstered. These two were probably the glib Franz and Dolf.

Newkirk felt Carter bump against him and heard the rattle of the waterproof package a second later. That made the decision for him and Newkirk softly said, "Run."

They both took off down the alley and the Hitler-Jugend gave chase, shouting delighted at the prospect of a morning jaunt through the town.

Despite the list of things that Carter always managed to louse up in the middle of an emergency, the one thing that he could do well was run. As long as his uniform fit. And as long as he wasn't trying to carry dynamite and a detonator while he did it.

Or, apparently, a camera the size of a fountain pen.

They were most of the way down the alley when Newkirk heard the camera drop, splashing in a shallow mud puddle.

Of all the things they could have left behind, the camera wasn't one of them and Newkirk hit the brakes, sliding on filth and debris before reversing directions.

He heard Carter's frantic, "I got the film out!" a second later, but he was already committed.

He snatched the camera from the water, then turned and ran. Seconds later he heard the heavy pounding of feet behind him and was tackled by a gorilla.

He hit the ground and the camera popped out of his hand, tumbling down the alley in Carter's direction. Newkirk fought to get free of the body that had collided with him, staring at the camera's erratic path until it slid under the surface of a discarded pallet, out of sight.

Carter had stalled at the end of the alley though and Newkirk yelled for him to run, finally kicking free of the orangutan that had brought him down, and scrambling back to his feet. Instead of shots, or shouts he heard a feral laugh behind him that sent a chill down his spine.

He didn't look back, but rounded the corner moments after Carter did and pushed the American once more to top speed. They had to get to the factory district, then the railroad cut, and then through the woods to the emergency tunnel entrance. A two hour walk most days, but necessary for secrecy's sake.

Secrecy was going to be a moot point with Hitler-Jugend on their tail. They had to lose them, and fast.

The moment Newkirk spotted a clothes line he dodged for it, dragging Carter with him. The Englander shopped on the run, selecting two articles of clothing seconds before he passed them, yanking them off the line.

A corduroy jacket for him that barely fit and a pair of coveralls that he really hoped Carter could get into. The yard they had cut through was empty but the next yard wasn't, and the inhabitant was displeased, to say the least, at their sudden arrival.

Barking wildly and yanking on its chain, the dog still had far too much free rein as far as Newkirk was concerned. Carter was silent as they carefully skirted the animal's reach, checking the next yard before hopping the fence.

Scanning the empty lot, Newkirk pulled Carter to a halt and took the film and maps from him, and over the sound of his heart trying to beat out of his chest, gasped, "Change into that."

Carter yanked his cap off, then the jacket, stripping down to his own black pants and shirt before he stepped into the coveralls.

"These are about two sizes too big, Newkirk!" Carter complained, swimming in the clothes, his hands and feet hidden.

"Close the zipper and they'll stay on. We'll tailor it later." Newkirk bit back, securing the maps and film inside the cap Carter had been wearing. He spared a glance to the street in front of the house then flipped the hat onto his own head and said, "Our new pals have found us again."

Without another word they both took off, vaulting fences and ducking full clothes lines until they had left that neighborhood for a slum.

There were no fences here and they gained some distance, reaching the six lines of railroad tracks in time to scramble in front of a slow moving freight engine. The tracks divided the housing development from the factory district, and the train was heading in the direction they wanted to go.

Newkirk moved alongside the rumbler, determining just how smart it would be to hop aboard. He was about to grab hold of the side of a boxcar when he realized that Carter wasn't with him. When he looked back he caught sight of the frantic sergeant yanking at one of the pant legs of his coveralls. He was caught on a rail spike on the line opposite, and there was another train coming.

"Carter, if you'd stop bleedin' messin around..." Newkirk swore and scrambled across the tumbling ballast, yanking his toad sticker from its hiding place along his wrist and sawing desperately at the industrial strength fabric. "I can't take you anywhere."

"It's a whole lot easier to run when you're not wearing a parachute." Carter snapped, shooting frantic glances to the approaching train until he felt his leg pop free with a hundred feet of empty track to spare.

As they stood back from the rush of wind, noise and metal, Newkirk watched the rumbler's caboose disappear in the opposite direction and pointed his hand at the spout of dissipating steam. "And there goes our ride, Andrew."

Shaking his head Newkirk knealt again and sawed off the bottom four inches of cloth on the other leg of Carter's coveralls, making them as even as possible, then scanned the parallel lines of track for anymore unexpected traffic.

"Well at least we lost those five guys." Carter brought up. "And we still got the film and the maps."

Newkirk nodded, absently, certain they were pressing their luck with even that bit of good news. "Let's get outta this town," he suggested.

Carter nodded, and led the way, running around the gated perimeter of a brick factory complex belching smoke and the stench of burning oil.

When they got to the road Newkirk suddenly understood what had become of the Hitler-Jugend.

They had a car and sat waiting on the other side of the building with their guns out, accompanied by a group of bored looking sentries.

Newkirk and Carter pulled to a stop fifty yards away, both expecting shots or shouts or something. They were clearly visible to the Hitler Youth but none of the 'boys' made any effort to approach them.

"What do we do now?" Carter asked, checking the route behind them, just in case this was part of a pincer movement.

"Guess that depends on what _they_ do now." Newkirk responded, squinting at the far too confident face of the tall one.

"What are they waitin for?"

"Us, to keep them entertained with this chase." Newkirk spat out angrily.

"Well that's just lousy." Carter said.

"Come on," Newkirk said, starting back the way they had come on tiring legs. "Maybe there's another train we can catch."

As soon as he turned the shouts started and the car engine roared into life. The sound of spinning tires on gravel gave both POWs another jolt of adrenaline and they doubled their speed instantly, shooting out onto the tracks again. Newkirk took off down the length of the rails this time, and glanced over his shoulder long enough to make sure that Carter was with him.

The car veered around the corner minutes later and shots popped against the rocks at their feet, spitting up shards of stone and dust. One shot hit a rail and whined as it flew, before it was stopped by flesh, and Carter went down, rolling hard on the ballast.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as they saw one of the runners fall the car full of overeager Hitler Youth slid to a halt, the doors popping open.

Newkirk had scrambled to Carter who was already picking himself up. The American looked only dazed, but Newkirk spotted the splash of crimson on the back of the coveralls, just behind Andrew's left shoulder.

The sergeant was reaching for the wound like it itched, but Newkirk pulled his hand away, yanking Carter's arm over his own shoulders and pushing them forward, towards the train that was coming their way. A train that he hoped would slide between themselves and the Hitler Youth and provide the cover they needed to disappear. Somehow.

Dolf had spotted Newkirk's intention with the train quickly enough and started shouting orders to his goons.

"W-why aren't they shootin' at us?" Carter asked, unconsciously putting more and more of his weight on Newkirk's shoulders.

'Because we won't be much fun to those twisters if we're dead.' Newkirk thought, but he pushed the wounded man to move forward faster and said, "Don't know, Carter. Keep movin'."

They were a hundred feet from the front of the train, then seventy, then fifty when Carter grunted softly and said, "My back kinda hurts, Newkirk." A second later Andrew had gone limp, crashing to the ground. He would have gone face first into the ballast if Newkirk hadn't been holding onto him.

The Brit felt a surge of panic rush through him that he barely stifled, tearing at the damp, red hole in Carter's overalls, finding the wound and pushing his hand down hard against it. Carter was still breathing. Newkirk could feel the rise and fall of his chest under his hand, but he could also feel the pressure of the blood trying to escape.

Thrusting his head up, Newkirk could see the Hitler-Jugend waiting patiently through each of the gaps between passing cattle carriers, Dolf and Franz still wearing cruel smiles.

The train…he couldn't get Carter on it, and he wasn't about to leave his mate just to save himself. But the least he could do was reduce the amount of trouble they were both in. Newkirk stood, one hand dripping with his mate's blood, and walked in the direction the train was going, picking up speed until he was even with a boxcar. It didn't take much to climb aboard and duck into the empty container, but he immediately balked at the horrible smells of refuse and death.

He didn't know what had been transported in the car, but whatever it was, was better off where it had been shipped, he was certain. It took him a few seconds to find a spot in which to wedge the hat; maps, film and all. Then he made his exit, leaping from the car and withstanding the punishment of the ballast.

The Hitler-Jugend were panicked when the train finally passed and they realized that one of the men had got away. They were subsequently furious when they finally spotted Newkirk a hundred and fifty feet down the track. Despite having his hands in the air, and walking at a leisurely, unthreatening pace Newkirk was the recipient of shouted threats.

Two of the five ran to put him into custody, grabbing at the shoulders of the corduroy jacket. Newkirk was fully prepared to cooperate up until he saw one of the men standing over Carter, nudge at his mate with a foot.

Newkirk flew into a rage, pushing one of the Hitler Jugend to the side, where the man tripped over a rail and went down. The other received a solid smack on the mouth before Newkirk tore down the track, shouting that the "bloody krauts should leave off."

The men standing over Carter only laughed, the two that were armed pointing their guns at the Englander and pulling the triggers.

Both the shots went wide but the strong instinct for self-preservation that went through Newkirk's system, stopped him cold for a split second.

Moment's later Newkirk was on the ground, under the weight of two of the five, taking blows to the body from fists and then boots. A careless heel smashed into his nose and he heard cartilage break, and began to choke on the gush of blood. Curling up, he did what he could to protect his stomach until repeated hits to his back broke one of his ribs, halfway down his side. His cry of pain brought the beating to an end, the seething young men backing off to recover their breaths and gloat about their victory.

Newkirk barely felt the globs of spittle landing on him. He did notice the unnecessarily handsy pat down from one of the youth that ended abruptly when a voice shouted from the road. He didn't know what the voice had said, who had said it, and he didn't know why it made a difference, but the moment the voice fell silent, the five men backed away.

"Next time, Nancy boy, you shouldn't run." Dolf said, delivering a final kick before the group walked away. "Just stay and take your punishment like a real man, uh?"

A train passed by, a few tracks away. Slow and rumbling. Newkirk tried to get up. His head swam and his face throbbed, his chest stabbed at him and he changed his mind, shifting on the hard rocks until he had at least reduced the pressure on his rib cage.

"Carter?"

The man in a heap a few feet away didn't respond. Newkirk craned his neck back trying to at least see if Carter was breathing, but he was limited to the soles of the sergeant's boots. One of them twitched, then was pulled out of sight and he heard a groan.

"Carter?" He tried again, making another effort to at least drag himself to his hands and knees. His rib sent hot pokers down his spine but Newkirk pushed past it and managed to sit up, holding tightly to the ground until the world stopped spinning.

He heard the ballast shift under the weight of footsteps behind him, and dug for his toad sticker again, determined this time that someone _else_ would be bleeding before he went down. When the shoes that belonged to the footsteps finally appeared in front of him he was shocked at their appearance. For one thing, they were barely there. What had once been soft-leather buckled shoes, were now soft leather, buckled scraps with holey stockings sticking through the toes.

And the toes, and the shoes, were tiny. Barely bigger than the length of his fingers. The waif that belonged to the shoes had grown a size too big for the dress she wore, and had had her hair sheered off at some point, so that the puff of fur sprouting from her head made her look like a dandelion.

She had snot running down her face, caked with coal dust, and tiny scratches on her arms and legs that were red enough to be mildly infected. Her round, brown eyes were steady on Newkirk but she made no effort to speak.

Newkirk slipped his knife back up his sleeve and gave the girl one last look, not having the foggiest idea where she came from or what to do about her, then tried calling his mate once more. "Carter?"

There was another groan, and Carter's legs moved again.

"'Xcuse me, miss." Newkirk said and crawled forward, moving slow and careful until he reached the American bleeding into the ground.

"They go away?" Carter asked, his words muffled by the press of the ballast against his cheek and the obvious pain that breathing was bringing him.

"Got…called off by an officer I think." Newkirk grunted. The little girl had followed him, her footsteps patiently pacing him as he crawled, but she'd made no effort to touch or speak to him.

"Oh…good." Carter said, drifting a little.

"Can you make it to your feet?" Newkirk asked.

Carter's breathing intensified, building momentum as his mind prepared him for that which his body wasn't sure it could do. None-the-less the American gave it a go, and managed to push up with one arm and both thighs, getting to his knees. He hung his head, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, but he was up.

"Don't think I can make it back to camp. But…ya know…up..maybe I can do."

With something new to look at the little girl had taken a few steps forward until she was standing in front of Carter, and she squatted a little, tilting her head until she could see Carter's face. She stayed there, apparently enraptured, until Carter opened his eyes and jolted at the sudden appearance of a child in his field of vision.

Carter groaned at the pain the jolt had given him then ducked his head, eyeing Newkirk in confusion.

"No idea, mate." Newkirk said, wiping at the blood that was still flowing from his nose, his face inflamed by the injury. It took a few minutes of careful consideration, pros and cons and the like, to decide to get to his feet, and once he did he immediately regretted whatever foolish argument had led to the decision. "Come on…" He said, trying bolster some sort of 'can do' attitude. "We'll make it to the rail road cut…take a rest. The closer we get to camp, the better the chance that they'll find us when we miss noon roll call."

Carter wasn't completely oblivious to the irony that missing a noon roll call might mean getting rescued. The thought put a slight quirk on his sweat bathed face and to his surprise the little girl responded to it, a chubby cheeked smile popping onto her face through the grime. The smile warmed him from head to toe, and filled him with energy that he shouldn't have had, and a part of him still wished he had that camera, so that he could take a picture of this dusty little angel and keep it with him.

The thought reminded him of the reason they had been in Hammelburg in the first place and Carter looked up to the corporal who was slowly coming to his side. "What about the maps and the film?"

Newkirk bent as much as he could, his face flushing beet red as bone ground on bone. He got his hand down far enough to latch onto Carter's upper arm and tugged him to his feet, both men gritting their teeth and stifling moans.

"I tossed it…onto one of the trains passin' by. S'on its way west, one way or the other."

Carter felt sick to his stomach now that he was on his feet. He vaguely recalled the pharmacist handbook he'd carried with him since his capture, and the section on emergency medical aid that suggested that nausea, dizziness and weakness in the limbs went along with blood loss and something new called shock. Shock sure fit the description of how he felt.

He was even more shocked when he felt a hand wrapping around his pinky and ring fingers, and glanced down into wide brown eyes, and tiny pouting lips.

Newkirk had seen it too, and the two men shared a glance before the Englander took the first painful step forward, advancing about five inches. "Come on then…Carter. Long road ahead."


	3. Chapter 3

Hogan didn't start to worry until an hour before roll call. They should have been back by then, but they might have been held up in town. Daylight missions were tricky and sometimes required a little more penache and finagling. They might have been stopped by an over eager guard, or held up by trains, or had to lay low because of…

It didn't matter. He ordered Kinch to stay in the tunnels and keep an eye out and tried to look casual as his men tended to the flower garden they were planting around Klink's quarters.

When the minutes turned into a half hour, then Schultz started barking for a roll call, Hogan couldn't be casual anymore.

His men stalled, arguing that they had to wash the dirt off their hands, or put away their tools. LeBeau made a point of stacking all the empty pots slowly and carefully. Olsen and Boquist argued heatedly over the positioning of a mum until Schultz's repeated warnings turned into the sergeant dragging both the men apart by the napes of their necks, and scolding them into formation.

When Kinch finally ducked out of the barracks Hogan gave him a desperate look, but the sergeant could only shake his head.

Ducking his chin against his chest, Hogan started to plot, weighing all the factors and forcing them through the calculating machine inside his brain, watching Schultz as he composed himself and started the count.

* * *

By the time they made the railroad cut Carter was barely able to walk. They'd torn up the corduroy jacket into strips, packing them against the gunshot wound on his back, and tying the whole thing as tight as they could manage but corduroy wasn't, by nature, a terribly absorbent material. Carter was still bleeding and Newkirk couldn't breathe. The blood had congealed in his battered and swollen nostrils, and the broken rib shifted every time he inhaled too deeply.

After the first hour they were creeping along like sloths, the little girl had grown bored with the pace. She took up the habit of drifting ahead of the men as they stumbled through the woods, collecting flowers and twigs and odds and ends.

When they hit the cut and slid down the dirt incline, the little girl took some convincing before she skidded down in their wake. She went with them happily into the shade of the tunnel arch.

Newkirk helped Carter into a sitting position, and made sure the bandage was in place before the American leaned back against the cold stone wall.

The Brit stayed on his feet, knowing he wouldn't make it back up again if he rested. The little girl glanced back and forth between her options, then tucked herself into the space between Carter's hip and his good arm, chastely pulling the too short dress over her knees, and leaning against Carter's chest.

Newkirk watched her, baffled by her behavior, and the way that this nameless waif had latched onto them. Neither of them had had the energy to waste on dissuading the little girl from following them. In fact, her presence had bolstered both of them into going farther, for longer than their conditions should have allowed.

Despite his injury, the sweat bathing his face and the pale color of his skin, Carter was softly smiling as he closed his eyes to rest. Newkirk firmly decided that the girl qualified as medicine and after a few more minutes spent getting his wind back, he left the two of them together and stepped back out into the open to look for the hidden emergency supply kit.

* * *

"Colonel Hogan, where _are_ they!?"

"I don't know, Schultz, but I'm sure they're around here somewhere."

"I don't want them to be _some_ where I want them to be here!" Schultz hissed, once more frantically searching the two ranks of men standing in front of Barrack 2. After all, sometimes he did miss them the first time through. Sometimes the men magically appeared between one count and the next. Only this time, Schultz didn't find them. "Colonel Hogan, please!"

"Schultz, don't you think I'd tell ya if I knew where they were. Maybe they're in with some of the other barracks. You know the men like to visit during the day." The suggestion was vague but it brought a glimmer of hope into the eyes of the panicking sergeant and he immediately rushed off to check with each of the other guards to see if their counts had been off.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Hogan turned to Kinch and LeBeau. "If they managed to get the film and the maps we can't send the guards and the dogs after them without warning. Kinch and LeBeau go out the emergency tunnel and check the normal route. I'll try to stall and give you as much time as I can, but destroy the maps and the film at all costs."

"Yes, sir."

"Oui, mon Colonel."

The Frenchman and the tall American disappeared into the barracks and Hogan turned back to the compound, watching Schultz's haphazard version of a one man foxtrot. Klink still hadn't appeared from his office, probably occupied by a phone call, or stuffing down his lunch.

It was just as well. Schultz was easier to stall than Klink, when it came to protecting the perfect no-escape record of the camp.

The big guard double timed his way back to the ranks, focused solely on Hogan, apparently unsuccessful with his search.

"Did you find them, Schultz?" Hogan asked, acting as unconcerned as possible.

"No." Schultz accused angrily. "They were not with the other men and they were not in the cooler, or in the rec hall. They were not in the mess, and I hope they would not be so stupid as to try to hide in the guard's barracks. Please, Colonel Hogan, today is not the day for fun and games. I give up on trying to find them, please…please tell them to come out."

Hogan stood by passively as Schultz glanced to his left, noticed the two new gaps in the ranks, then turned a pale pleading look back to the officer. The look turned into the blank stare that usually preceded a man passing out, when they both heard Klink's impatient, "Repooooort!"

Hogan tossed his hand forward, grabbing the front of Schultz's uniform just in case, and couldn't have hoped for a better awful situation when the idea popped into his head and he pushed Schultz back just enough to unbalance him.

The moment he felt the big guard wobble Hogan shouted, "Schultz, are you okay?"

He pushed hard, trying to make it look like he was struggling to keep Schultz up, instead of trying to knock him down. "Oh, Schultz you've gone pale. Come here, you better sit down before you fall down."

"Colonel Hogan, what are you-"

"Go with it, Schultz, I'm saving your life here." Hogan muttered, then grunted as the sergeant immediately responded by faking a dead faint. Hogan went down with him and half the prisoners crowded around excitedly, hiding the sergeant and the colonel from Klink.

"Stay down, Schultz and keep your eyes closed. You're gonna get a nice rest for a few hours, then tell the camp doctor that you haven't eaten in two days and must have fainted. Got it?" Hogan demanded quickly, trying to time things so that he could interrupt the commandant before the German could break up the mob.

"Got it." Schultz said, then snapped his eyes shut and let his head fall to the side.

"Stand back, fellas. Give us some room. Give us some air." Hogan shouted, pressing back against the legs of the men around him before he jumped to his feet and swept into Klink's path, launching a quick salute. "He's fainted, sir. He said he wasn't feeling well. You should probably call for a few of your men, and a stretcher…a-and a wheelbarrow."

Klink looked mildly concerned and curious, trying to see over Hogan's shoulder, but already nodding to the request. "Of course…oh how terrible. Langenscheidt!"

Hogan let out a breath, hard and fast, then turned back to the crowd around Schultz supervising the sergeant's transfer to the guard's barracks and hoping against hope that he'd bought his men enough time.


	4. Chapter 4

"Here, Carter, drink." Newkirk prompted the barely conscious man, pushing the open mouth of the canteen against his lips. Eventually the American did as he was told, waking up enough to swallow without choking. Newkirk made sure he'd taken at least ten sips before he let him rest. The next step would involve pain, and bandages and sulfur and none of it would be much fun.

Stalling a bit the Englander gently put the canteen into the hands of the little girl but she only stared at it, as if she'd never seen it before. "Like this, sweetheart…" Newkirk prompted, then took his own sip from the container, before handing it back.

The girl's hands were tiny against the wool cover of the vessel. The mouth covered her nose entirely as she latched her top teeth over the lip and tilted. She spilled on her front, but got a few good gulps, that turned into a few more when Newkirk tried to take the canteen away. It was as if she had suddenly been reminded that she was an organic being in need of liquid to survive.

The Brit got the idea that the need for food would follow and he dug some of the canned biscuits and jelly out of the emergency pack next, trying to force shaking hands to the delicate task of opening the tin. The girl watched, closely, once more pressed in tight against Carter.

When Newkirk dipped a cracker into the flavored gelatin, she craned her neck a little, hyper focused on just what was in the mysterious can. Newkirk handed her the biscuit and she took it, tasting a corner before she shoved the whole biscuit in her mouth, never taking her eyes of the Englander.

That is until the sugar and starch reached her brain and her eyes widened, her tongue reacting to the taste. Newkirk put the crackers and the tin beside her and waited until she had reached for another biscuit, dipped it into the jam and popped it into her mouth.

"That's the way love- no Carter, come on mate, stay awake."

The American's head had listed to the side, and his body was beginning to go with it, sliding away from the girl and down toward the ground. Newkirk braced his broken rib with his arm and sat on Carter's free side keeping the man upright and tapping his cheeks gently until Carter's eyes swam back into his head.

"Hey, Newkirk." Carter slurred, smiling a little.

"Hey Carter…" Newkirk muttered, leaning forward until he could reach the strap of the bag the supplies were packed in, dragging the whole thing closer to him. The move took his breath away and shifted something inside him making the underlying pain just a little worse.

The Englander was forced to rest against the wall, wishing that it was the buoyant chest of a pretty Fraulein instead.

"You okay, Newkirk?"

Peter had closed his eyes, his face tight with the pain until it subsided, but he could hear the concern in Carter's voice, and he knew that talking to the American was the way to keep him awake. He wasn't sure why awake was so much more important than asleep but he knew it was.

"Be alright, chum." He responded weakly.

"She sure likes them crackers."

Newkirk gave a breathless laugh, then picked up the canteen again, trying to alleviate the desert in his throat that breathing continuously through his mouth had caused. "Yeah…figured it would go with the tea and crumpets."

He felt the American shift beside him, then heard a soft grunt and opened his eyes to find a single flower floating in front of him. The hand that held it was familiar and tiny and Peter turned his head to see the little girl now sitting in Carter's lap, proffering him one of the treasures that she had been collecting all morning.

He took it, appreciating the delicate beauty of the frail thing, then blinked when the girl put her fingertips to her nose and sniffed intentionally.

His face was still caked with blood, his nose swollen to twice its size and he was developing two black eyes undoubtedly. The absolute last thing that he could do was smell a flower, let alone pretend to smell a flower.

"That's alright I'm…'lergic. Hay fever." He tried, giving the flower back.

The girl seemed nonplussed, accepting the bloom and leaning against Carter's chest as she studied the flower, turning it lazily in her hand. Carter's good arm eventually made its way around her, and the two men sat in pain and in silence, perfectly content to do nothing but watch her.

"Wonder what kinda flower that is?" Carter asked eventually, his tongue thick in his mouth.

"It's a cornflower, or chicory if you like."

"Huh."

"Carter…stay awake." Newkirk warned, shoving Carter a little even as the girl's eyes were starting to close. "You too, then." He said, knocking his fingers gently against her barely shod feet. She jerked awake, her eyes going wide with alarm, and yanked her feet out of his reach. Newkirk frowned apologetically. "Sorry love, but you gotta stay awake. Help me keep my mate Carter here…there's an idea. Look here…this is Carter."

Newkirk pointed a finger at the American's chest, then shook him gently until Carter groaned and moved his head about again. "You can call him Andrew. He's very informal. And I'm Peter."

The girl actively followed his finger, and Newkirk did it again, pointing to Andrew, then himself and repeating the names. The third time the girl mimicked the pointing, poking gently against Carter's chest, then leaning over to poke Newkirk.

"Right." Newkirk said, trying to smile around the gruesome swelling of his face. "And you are?" He poked the girl's chest next and she grinned at him, but didn't respond.

"Happy." Carter responded and grinned weakly. "That's what she is, happy."

The Englander smirked at the pudgy cheeks, sticky with jam and shook his head. "No doubt, mate."

"Carter, Newkirk!"

The voice whispered loudly from the hill atop the railroad cut and Newkirk found himself silently promising to never complain about French cooking ever again.

"LeBeau, we're in here, mate." He responded and listened happily to the string of French curses that filtered down into the rail road tunnel as dirt cascaded down the hill.

When LeBeau appeared he was armed and cautious, searching the shadows carefully before his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he caught sight of the two men leaning against the wall. Almost immediately he turned away.

"Oh no…Kinch, get down here, vite!"

"Carter's been shot, Louie." Newkirk explained as quickly as he could, then put his hands out for the girl, who willingly climbed into his lap. The move swept a cloud of darkness over him for a moment but he sucked oxygen into his lungs and did his best to stay awake.

LeBeau kept a string of French going, and his back turned. His involuntary response to the sight of blood would help nothing.

"My god, Newkirk, what the hell happened?" Kinch asked, understanding Louie's posture the instant he entered the tunnel and saw the wash of blood on the Brit's face.

"Long story, Carter's been shot. In the back, the right shoulder."

"I got it." Kinch said, moving to kneel in front of Carter before he tossed a handful of orders over his shoulder. "Get back to camp, Louie. Fast as you can. Let the colonel know where we are and that we got two wounded men. Anybody chasin' you guys?"

"Not anymore." Newkirk responded. "And we tossed the goods, nobody caught us with 'em."

"Good. Get goin', LeBeau."

The command was unnecessary. The Frenchman was already out of the tunnel and scrambling back up the hill by the time Kinch finished talking. The American staff sergeant took one long look at Newkirk, wincing in sympathy before he turned his attention to Carter, supporting the man before leaning him forward.

There was a wet patch of blood on the wall, the corduroy soaked through on the bottom edge, but when Kinch started to pull the patch away from the wound he met resistance. "The blood's gone through, but it's started to clot."

Newkirk breathed a sigh of relief, the adrenaline that had been keeping him awake, flooding out of his limbs in a rush.

"What about you?" Kinch asked, unable to avoid staring at the little girl who was investigating his darker skin tone closely.

"Bloody krauts used me for a piñata, busted a rib." Newkirk's eyelids were starting to sag and Carter was already unconscious again, only upright because Kinch was holding him that way.

"Hold on, Newkirk. Help's comin'."

The Englander nodded, his eyes slipping closed.

"And how are you?" Kinch asked, his voice going up an octave as the little girl leaned back into the comfort of Newkirk's lap, in awe of the imposing black man.

For a moment Kinch was afraid she might cry, or scream, or try to run away, but the wide eyed stare eventually turned into a grin and like the two men before him, Kinch instantly fell in love.


	5. Chapter 5

"Colonel Hogan…" LeBeau called softly, peering around the edge of the door of the guard's barracks.

Hogan had been faithfully watching over the 'ailing' Sergeant Schultz for the past hour or so, listening to the man happily snoring away. The doctor's visit had been brief, resulting in twenty-four hours rest for Schultz and a big meal as soon as he awakened.

Shocked that he was getting a reprieve and extra food instead of a court martial or a one way ticket east, Schultz spent five minutes quietly thanking the colonel over and over again before he drifted off. The barracks were empty but for the sergeant. The senior POW officer had spent the time pacing, waiting and worrying.

The minute LeBeau popped his head in, Hogan was on his feet again.

"Give me good news-"

"They are hurt. Badly." LeBeau said, not wasting time, and wishing he could have reported anything else. "Newkirk said that they were attacked by Hitler Youth, they beat up Pierre and shot Andrew, but they didn't get the maps or the film."

"Where are they now?"

"At the railroad cut. Kinch is with them and they have the emergency supplies."

Hogan swore angrily under his breath. "We can't get to them until dark and we can't _leave_ them there until then, either. You said they don't have the film or the maps?"

"Oui. Newkirk said he tossed it before they were attacked."

Hogan paced, agitated, trying to put together a jigsaw that had pieces from three other puzzles mixed in. When the pieces finally started forming a picture a minute or so later he felt some of the pressure in his chest subside.

"Alright, we have a few hours to play with but I can't leave the camp or Klink will get wise. I'll stall evening roll call as much as I can. Get Olsen and Wilson into Luftwaffe uniforms, give them medical corp badges, mustaches and glasses, and get them outside the gates double time."

"Oui, colonel, but-"

"They're medical officers, transferring important but wounded prisoners and their truck broke down. They need one of Klink's trucks to get the prisoners and a place to put them up overnight."

LeBeau paled a little and fidgeted. "I got a look at them, Colonel. They looked very bad…and they had someone else with them."

Hogan's eyes narrowed, afraid to ask. "Who..?"

"She was about this tall." LeBeau said putting out his hand a few feet from the floor.

That came as surprise and suddenly Hogan had another reason for wanting his men to survive. Not just because he couldn't afford to lose them, or because he cared about his insane little band, but because he wanted a damn good explanation for why they were once more bringing pets into camp.

"What is ' _she_ '? A dog, another chimp?"

"A little girl." LeBeau said with mild consternation.

"Oh…good we're kidnapping children now. Nevermind. We'll discuss that later. Get Wilson and Olsen moving."

The Frenchman gave him a hasty nod then ducked back out the door, crossing the compound.

Hogan went back to pacing trying to figure out how Newkirk and Carter could have attracted the attention of the Hitler Youth of all people. They were smarter than that, he thought, and better liars. They'd had a good cover story and the mission shouldn't have taken that long.

It was more dangerous during the day but they'd needed the light, and the advance time to get the information off to London.

That thought prompted him to realize that they had a courier dropping into camp that night that would be risking his life for no reason. Hogan didn't want anymore blood on his hands than he already had and ducked out of the sergeant's barracks heading across the compound. By the time he passed the kommandantur he was in time to run into Klink who was reporting to the gate himself to investigate the two strangers.

"Commandant Klink, is there anything I can help you with today, sir?" Hogan asked, stalling the colonel as the gates to the camp opened behind him. "You know I was just in with Schultz, and I gotta tell you he doesn't look good."

"That's very distressing." Klink said then tried to step around Hogan, but found the man in his path a second time.

"I really think you should visit with him, sir. He must be a sick man to have collapsed the way he did. I think it would really perk him up."

"Some other time, Hogan, please. I have duties to attend to."

Behind them the gates had closed again, the two medical officers pointing toward the motor pool as they argued with the guards.

"Alright sir, but remember, never save for tomorrow what you could have done today."

"Yes, thank you, Colonel for your, once more, unsolicited advice." Klink snapped, finally making it around the senior POW in time to watch a truck drive toward the other gates, Langenscheidt running his way to report.

Hogan watched the conversation from a distance, nodding his approval when Klink finally turned back to his office disappointed, then ducked into Barrack 2.

"They made it out, Colonel."

"I know, LeBeau you did a great job. But we gotta call off that courier drop for tonight." Hogan said brushing past the Frenchman to toggle the release for the tunnel entrance. The ladder swung down as Hogan said, "Head down and get the radio warmed up. I'll go find Baker and send him down with you. Contact London and let them know the mission is scrubbed."

"Shouldn't we ask them to drop medical supplies instead, Colonel?"

After a moment of thought Hogan nodded. "Find out what they can send us."

* * *

When the truck pulled into camp Hogan made sure Klink was busy inside his office, arguing the merits of allowing the prisoners to put in a vegetable garden.

While Kilnk was against the project, claiming it was a means for the prisoners to use the tools to dig tunnels. Hogan vehemently disagreed, siting Schultz's hunger collapse as evidence that even the guards were being starved to death in the camp.

"If the prisoners starve all they can do is complain, but if the guards starve they might desert. Without guards you won't have much of a prison camp, Colonel."

"Please Hogan, I know what the doctor said. But can you really expect me to believe that Schultz fainted because he is starving?"

"For a big man, Schultz has a fast metabolism, Colonel. It takes a lot of food to get a big man like that through a day."

"I don't know why I'm discussing this with you. You're not a doctor."

"No, but a good friend of mine was back in the states. He was a diet doctor, and worked with all those skinny starlets in Hollywood."

Hogan knew he'd roped the commandant in as Klink's eyes got brighter and his mouth dropped open. He kept the conversation going until he spotted the truck heading back for the motor pool.

Faster than ever before Hogan managed to wrap up the conversation, and get permission for the vegetable garden, with just enough time to leave the office and intercept Wilson and Olsen before they 'reported' to the commandant.

"Nevermind that." Hogan said. "He's in there dreaming about Hollywood starlets and rutabagas. How are the boys?"

Wilson gave him a look that he didn't like at all and Hogan told them to lead the way, following them into the rec hall that was now a temporary triage area.

Even before he walked in he could smell a faint whiff of copper, the stink of iodine, and felt sick. Carter had been laid out on his stomach on one of the long tables, the top of the borrowed coveralls and his shirt cut away to reveal the wound.

Blood was seeping slowly from a lateral wound on his shoulder blade. The hole wasn't very big, but the bullet shard had gone deep, the path visible via the bruising on his back. The whole area was already red with the start of an infection.

"Ah Carter..." Hogan sighed then looked for his other man. Newkirk was seated backward on one of the chairs, situated so that he could easily see the American sergeant. His shirt had been removed, his chest and back a mess of forming bruises. One area on his back was bright white in the middle, then scarlet, orange, purple, blue and black. Newkirk's eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark circles, his nostrils stuffed with cotton, and his nose twice the normal size.

Seated directly in front of the Englander was the little girl. Her chair had been pushed against the back of Newkirk's and she sat wrapped in a blanket, cross legged on the wooden seat staring dumbfounded at a rag doll one of the men must have produced for her.

She didn't know what to do with it, it seemed, and sat tugging at each of the strands of yarn that made up the doll's hair, not hard enough to rip them out but perhaps curious as to why they were there.

As soon as Wilson and Olsen had stepped into the building they'd begun pulling off the Luftwaffe uniforms and started the process of washing their hands in the hot water that had been put on the stove prior to their arrival. Hogan watched the ritual, feeling helpless.

"Anything I can do?" He asked, waiting as Wilson glanced around him cataloguing tools and supplies.

"Everything's here, we just need a lotta luck right now." Wilson said, shaking his head.

Hogan nodded and stepped out of the way pulling a chair up near Newkirk and watching as the man rested a hand on the little girl's shoulder. The hand remained as Hogan sat down, drawing the girl's startled attention for a moment before she settled her cheek against the Brit's hand and once more relaxed.

"She's jumpy." Hogan said softly.

"She doesn't like strangers, sir. But she's a good judge of character. Took to me, Carter and Kinch right away."

"Where is Kinch?"

"Wilson sent him after some additional supplies." Newkirk responded then rested his forehead against the arm he had slung over the back of the chair.

"Up to telling me what happened?"

"As long as I can do it with me head down, sir." The Brit's muffled voice filtered through the cotton in his nose.

Hogan smirked slightly and said, "Don't take this the wrong way, Newkirk, but at the moment I prefer you that way."

Newkirk raised his head just enough to peer at the colonel over his shoulder, then sparked a tired but appreciative grin. He moved the hand that rested on the girl's shoulder and ruffled the fuzz on her head fondly before he said, "First of all I don't know who this fluff ball is or where she come from. She just appeared in the train yards and followed Carter and I out of Hammelburg. We were too focused on dragging ourselves out of Dodge to tell her to scram."

Hogan considered the little girl, unable to deny that she was cute, if unwashed, and far more acceptable as a potential resident of Stalag 13 than a talkative, overly energetic child might have been. "As long as we don't have an angry mama bear coming around to look for her, we can keep baby bear for the time being." he allowed.

Newkirk closed his eyes and his head once more rested wearily on his forearm. "The operation wasn't too bad until a gang of Hitler-Jugend with nothing to do but roust little old ladies, started eyeballin me and Carter. When we took a scarper they tagged us into an alley and caught me pullin' off me dress."

Hogan raised a brow at the corporal's phrasing but didn't say anything, noticing suddenly that he was the intent focus of two small brown eyes.

"I bet they found that peculiar." Hogan said, unable to look away from the dirty face.

"Took offense they did. Called me a Nancy." Newkirk took a shallow breath prepared to continue, but when he looked up he noticed that the little one had once more started a staring contest.

"She's waitin' for you to smile, Colonel. It's how she decides to trust people or not."

Hogan frowned, then parted his lips in an awkward grimace.

"Nah, sir, it's gotta be natural." Newkirk chided. "Here..." As he had with Carter and Kinch, Newkirk poked a finger against the gold writing on the colonel's bomber jacket and said, "This is the gov'na. Colonel..Robert...Hogan." He said, pointing at the words. "He's a nice man...for an officer. And he doesn't bite I promise."

Following Newkirk's lead the little girl stepped down from her chair leaving the doll and blanket behind, and poked at the lettering, leaning against the colonel's knee with one hand resting on his thigh, intent on the letters.

"Has _she_ got a name?" Hogan asked quietly, as if afraid that talking any louder might break the spell.

"None so far. Hasn't spoken at all."

Without thinking Hogan found himself smiling as the girl continued to poke at his name, and when he grinned so did she.

"Ah...there you are, Colonel. Welcome to the club."


	6. Chapter 6

Wilson did good work. Despite his protestations, and the constant downplaying of his abilities, he wasn't just the only doctor in camp. He was the best doctor in camp. It wasn't just because of his medical talents either. It was because he cared about his patients, and stuck with them. As hard as Hogan worked to pull together impossible capers, Wilson worked that much harder to patch things up when the capers went bust.

He was absolutely invaluable to the team and Hogan made sure Wilson knew that shortly after Newkirk got done swearing at the man for fifteen minutes. Hogan couldn't blame Newkirk much either, after all, the man had a broken nose and broken and cracked ribs. The bones had required setting and there was no way to make something like that easy without painkillers.

London had promised to send what they could but it wouldn't come until well after midnight and despite Newkirk's protests, Wilson wouldn't let Newkirk wait that long. That had been the root of the disagreement, but Newkirk had quickly made it personal.

Now that he was 'in the club' Hogan had been able to quietly guide Baby Bear away from the yelling when the language exceeded what he thought she should hear. For that reason he and the girl were in the far corner of the rec hall when Klink and Langenscheidt barged into the building unannounced.

By that time Carter's surgery was done and he was resting on the canvas stretcher on the floor. As the sergeant was already covered in a blanket all Olsen had to do was lay a towel over Carter's face and the man's identity was effectively hidden.

Newkirk pulled the blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders, up over his head and hunched in his chair, his back to the door.

Klink took his time searching the room and Hogan was grateful that Wilson and Olsen had kept their mustache's on. Wilson managed to get to his glasses first and slipped them into place, keeping his face turned away from the Kommandant.

Hogan stayed where he was on the bench in front of the chess table with Baby Bear sitting directly behind him, her legs pulled up to her chest. He was effectively out of sight for the moment, if not out of mind.

After his lengthy, suspicious stare subsided Klink turned to address Wilson, spotting the man's jacket laying across one of the tables. "Herr Doctor, I am Kommandant Klink. I was unable to introduce myself when you came into camp before, and I apologize. I was hoping that you would join me tonight for a private dinner in my quarters."

Wilson panicked. A doctor yes. Willing to stick his hands into the innards of another man, yes. But a spy. Not hardly. The medic stared at the Kommandant without responding and Hogan wished he could step in, but even drawing attention to himself could risk the tiny body behind him.

"Whoever zat man is, make him leave. Zis is a surgery not a hotel room. I won't take visitors!" Newkirk suddenly said, using a guttural German voice, the words slurred.

Klink looked with surprise to the man hunched under a blanket, taking a step or two closer then stiffening when the voice barked again.

"Vat are you, a peeping Tom? Luftwaffe colonels have nothing better to do than to stare at vounded generals?"

"G-general, I..I…" Klink nearly choked on the word immediately affixing his eyes as far from the man in the blanket as possible. "I had no way of knowing, General, I.."

It had taken longer than Olsen liked to find his glasses. When he finally did he rose to his feet from behind the table and rushed theatrically to Newkirk's side.

"Please General Newkirkenheimscheidt, you must relax. The procedure isn't finished yet and you could do irreversible damage." The man chided before glaring darkly at Klink. "You do not have permission to be here, Krink. You are upsetting the general and reversing hours of delicate surgery."

"I'm s-sorry, Sir, General Newkirken-"

"This man is very sick!"

"Yah, very sick." Newkirk agreed, feeling like he was going to suffocate under the blanket.

"His condition may worsen if he is not given time to rest and recover!" Olsen continued, backing the commandant out of the building one step at a time.

"I'm so sorry, General. I was only trying to find out what the shouting was about, I-"

"There would be less shouting if you were to stop poking your nose where it does not belong." Olsen growled.

Newkirk was about to add something to the matter but his stomach lurched, the heat from the blanket combining with the remainder of the recent pain to make him queasy.

"He must rest!" Olsen declared, grabbing for the door.

"Rest, yes, sir. Rest, of course sir. But if the General should need anything, I-"

Olsen slammed the door shut in Klink's face and Newkirk popped his head out from under the blanket looking green.

" _Newkirkenheimscheidt_!?" Hogan demanded, then reached a hand behind him to collect Baby Bear. But she had already hopped down from her perch and scampered over to the door preparing to pull it back open again. "Olsen!" Hogan shouted, launching to his feet.

Olsen gently intercepted and tried his own smile on the girl as Wilson swept in for the save, producing a bucket into which Newkirk lost what was left of a distant breakfast. The unfortunate rebellion of his stomach awakened a hundred other pains and Newkirk was once more plunged into misery, which he punctuated with a few choice words before falling silent.

Olsen handed Baby Bear off to Hogan who held the girl in his arms watching Olsen and Wilson once again clean up Newkirk.

"He needs to be in a real bed, Colonel." Wilson said apologetically once Newkirk's stomach had settled again. "Both of them. They both need painkillers too, and penicillin for Carter."

"The medicine is coming tonight and I plan to house Carter and Newkirk in my quarters. I've already got LeBeau and some of the fellas working on getting an extra bunk in there."

"How are you going to cover for them at roll call?" Olsen asked.

Hogan eyed Wilson, no longer fully confident in the plan he'd thought up, given the way the past few minutes had gone.

"I was hoping that the two of you would be willing to turn out in uniform at roll call. I'll report two of my men ill and request that the visiting Herr Doctor come take a look at them. Klink will believe whatever you tell him and once Carter and Newkirk are in my quarters it won't matter."

"And the uh…" Wilson swallowed, looking about as green as Newkirk had been a minute ago. "The two special patients that I'm supposed to be tending to?"

Hogan felt Baby Bear starting to slump in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder. The weight of her head was an easy distraction and the addition of another problem that he hadn't yet found a solution for didn't make it any easier to think. "I'll have to get back to you on that." Hogan said after a moment.

Olsen smirked a little and pointed vaguely at the girl. "Speaking of patients, Colonel, she could use a decent meal and a bath. Not necessarily in that order."

"I've got the perfect man for that job." Hogan said. "I just have to figure out how I'm going to convince him of that."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, LeBeau said, "You want me to do what?"

"Food and a bath, LeBeau, it's not that hard." Hogan said, then gestured to the tiny creature that he was holding easily with one arm. "There isn't that much of her to clean and she's quiet."

"Sure, she's quiet now. All women act like angels around officers." LeBeau groused then turned back to the thick brothy soup he was making with Carter and Newkirk especially in mind. "The minute you leave, she will turn into a devil."

"LeBeau." Hogan chided, disappointed. "You're probably the most qualified man in this camp. You said yourself you had how many siblings and cousins..?"

The Frenchman stood at the stove, glowering miserably into the soup for a few minutes before he mumbled a number.

"I'm sorry, Louie, what was that?" Hogan prompted and smirked a little when the Frenchman's shoulders sagged.

"I said, 38, and oui, I'll do it." Louie turned around, looking the girl over like he was judging the weight of a turkey hanging in a window. "But don't think this makes me the camp babysitter. And I don't change diapers, so she had better be housebroken."

"This from the man who wouldn't let me cast a dog out of the barracks." Hogan said shaking his head.

"I have never yet heard a person say that "Children are a man's best friend."" Louie said stubbornly then lifted his hands up to take the girl. "Come on, hand her over."

"Uh...you have to be part of the club first." Hogan said.

"Club! What club?"

"The Baby Bear club. See, she'll only go to the people that she trusts. And she'll trust you if she likes your smile."

LeBeau shrugged and smirked. "Who doesn't like my smile?" He said, then grinned toothily at the girl.

Baby Bear took one look and retreated against Hogan's shoulder and the colonel walked over to the table, perching on the edge and settling the girl on his knee. "Nah, LeBeau. You have to be sincere about it. Here." Mimicking Newkirk, Hogan pointed to LeBeau and said, "Baby Bear, this is Louie. He's French. He's a good cook, and a great dancer. And he's got to take care of you for a while, so that I can tend to Andrew and Peter."

Hogan felt like an idiot. He was fairly certain that Baby Bear couldn't understand a word of English and that his explanations were pointless, but something about the face he was making, or his tone of voice, must have convinced her to try again, and she directed brown, soulful eyes to the Frenchman.

Louie stood with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting to see what would happen. When all he got were stares he shrugged and said, "What? What if I don't want to be in the club?"

"LeBeau!" Hogan warned, then softened his tone. "Now, try it again." Hogan poked LeBeau leaving a small dent in the worn wool of his sweater, then poked Baby Bear's shoulder, wondering if the trick had been poking in the right spot. He made the introductions again then looked to the little Frenchman expectantly.

LeBeau smiled again, mostly teeth, though his eyes were a little softer. Baby Bear leaned away from the colonel and stared at LeBeau's mouth, inspecting the smile closely before she sank back against the familiar smelling leather jacket.

"No go, Colonel. If she doesn't like me, she doesn't like me." LeBeau said, far to happy about it before he turned back to the cooking pot.

"She's gonna like you, because you're gonna keep trying." Hogan said, irritated, then looked to the little girl who was now staring raptly at the pot on the stove. "Is any of that ready to eat?"

LeBeau glanced at the colonel, then to the hungry girl in his lap, then smirked softly. "Oui. It is too hot at the moment but I can have some ready for her in a bit."

"Thanks, Louie." Hogan said then looked down to the fuzzy head that snapped up to focus on him. "I guess that means there's time for a little tour." He said, then set Baby Bear on her feet and guided her with one hand around the small building, keeping up a constant narrative.


	7. Chapter 7

"I need a tub, mon Colonel. Towels, a brush, ribbons, and new clothes for _petit bebe ours."_ Louie announced at breakfast the next morning.

"Excuse me?" Newkirk demanded from where he was reclining on Carter's bunk in the main room. "Did you just call her a horse?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes and muttered a string of frustrated Parisian before he said, "Non, Newkirk. An _ours_ is a bear in French."

"Doesn't sound right. Your French pronunciation is terrible, you should stick to English like the rest of us." Newkirk pontificated, giving the girl seated on the bunk next to him a conspiratorial grin. "Isn't that right, love? No, no, jack on the queen, there you are."

The Frenchman shook his head and returned his attention to the colonel who had been awake before any of the rest of them that morning, mostly lost in thought. The fact that he had also been the one to stay up the latest, going out to get the medicine drop, then watching over Carter, Newkirk and the little girl in his quarters, gave Louie the impression that he hadn't slept at all the night before.

"The tubs we use for washing the clothes will not work, Colonel. I have to have a new tub and soap."

"Did you have a particular place in mind for this bath?" Newkirk asked.

"I was going take her down in the tunnels." LeBeau said. He'd been carefully avoiding the fact that he wasn't yet in "the club", even if Baby Bear had happily eaten his soup and croissants the night before, and was just as willing to devour the breakfast he'd made.

"It's drafty down there, she'll catch her death."

"She won't be bathing for long, Newkirk. Only a few minutes will not make her sick."

"Sure but the minute she gets the sniffles guess who'll be elected to wipe 'er nose."

" _I_ didn't elect me to be the nanny, Colonel Hogan did. If you have a problem with the way I take care of her, take it up with him."

"Hey guys! What are you fightin' about? Both of you can give her a bath, and both of you can wipe her nose. What'ya think, she's only ever gonna need cleaned once?" Kinch interrupted, giving the colonel a quick glance, surprised the man hadn't yet responded to the bickering.

"You'll have to wait until I can whip up some clothin' anyway, LeBeau." Newkirk said, "Shouldn't take more than a few hours, sir."

Hogan didn't respond, still frozen in thought, the cup of coffee in his hand gone cold.

"Colonel Hogan?" LeBeau said, finally tapping the man on the shoulder. The move got his attention and the officer focused his eyes, looking askance at the Frenchman.

"We were talking about the bath for Baby Bear." LeBeau said.

"Oh…oh, that's probably a good idea, LeBeau." Hogan said, his head gravitating back towards the position it had been in for the past hour.

"But sir, I will need some supplies. And so will Newkirk, to make the girl some new clothing." LeBeau waited, concern in his eyes, chewing on a corner of his lips until Hogan finally blinked and looked at the barracks full of men staring at him.

"I'm sorry, LeBeau. What do you need?" Hogan asked finally putting the cup of coffee down and turning as much of his attention as he could to the little Frenchman. While Louie repeated his list, Newkirk shifted on the bed, then started making the tedious effort to stand.

Baby Bear, proving to be the helpful sort, got behind Newkirk once his hind-end had left the mattress, and pushed until Newkirk was standing. She got off the bed and stood next to him, just close enough to brush against his pant legs. Firmly planted in her 'spot', the girl went back to observing the world, waiting to see what would happen next.

Knowing what he thought he knew Hogan wondered if she had always been that way, or if it had just been since the war that she watched everything so closely.

"Uh…uh…" Hogan began, not realizing right away that he had cut LeBeau off mid-sentence. The colonel met Newkirk's eyes, then the Frenchman's and said, "Can I talk to you fellas? Privately?"

The request brought a concerned look from Newkirk and petulant look from LeBeau but both men agreed and followed the colonel as the ducked into his private quarters. Dutifully Baby Bear followed along, her puff of hair bouncing as she trailed after Newkirk.

Hogan eyed the girl, wanting to protest to her presence there, but couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Sit down, fellas." Hogan said quietly, and seated himself on the bunk Newkirk had occupied the prior evening. "Newkirk…what happened at the train yard?"

The Englishman had stayed on his feet, despite the colonel's invitation. Sitting and standing were painful processes that he'd just as soon avoid at the moment. Baby Bear had gone to sit on the bottom of the second bunk in the room where Carter still slept, careful not to bump the sleeping man, and waited patiently while the adults talked. After glancing back to make sure that she was set, Newkirk faced the colonel and said,

"We were running sir, trying to escape those junior goosesteppers and they started shootin at us. At our feet rather. A bullet must have bounced off the rails or something and Carter went down. He passed out on me and I knew I had to get rid of the goods, so I jumped onto a passing train car and tucked the maps and film into a cranny, then jumped off."

"Did the Hitler Youth see you jumping off the train?"

"No, sir. They were focused on Andrew at first."

"Do you remember which car you put it on?"

Newkirk was already shaking his head. The train had been long, the situation hostile and ever changing. "One of the cattle cars, sir. It was a long train of boxcars, and they must have been transporting dead cows, because..."

Newkirk trailed off when he saw the look that had settled on his CO's face.

"Was there a bucket in the corner of the car?" Hogan asked quietly.

Newkirk's brow furrowed as he thought back to those frantic moments, surprised at how many details he could recall. "There was sir, I think. Kicked into the corner."

Hogan sighed and stood. "Those trains weren't transporting cattle."

"What?" LeBeau asked, shooting a look to the Englander as he straightened in his chair.

"Last night before I went to sleep I watched Baby Bear climb out of her bed and grab the fire bucket. She was so…focused on what she was doing, I decided not to stop her, and just watched. She used the bucket to relieve herself."

The topic was delicate, the behavior strange and heartbreaking.

"It's not like she could have used anything else, mon Colonel." LeBeau said softly and Hogan nodded.

"I know that, and I'm proud of her. But she didn't try to wake anybody. She climbed down on her own and used the bucket like there was no question as to why it was there."

Instantly Newkirk was able to conjure the memory of that smell that had filled the boxcars. It was, after all, one of the last things that he'd been able to smell before his nose had been broken. Death, urine, human excrement and vomit. It was the stench of misery and human suffering and he'd grown to recognize it over the years of war. When his eyes went from Hogan's face to Baby Bear's, he finally put the two things together.

He suddenly understood how Baby Bear had come to be a scraped up, dirty mess in a train yard. Why she had been abandoned and probably how. Why she was content to just sit in silence most of the time, and judged the trustworthiness of a person by their smile. How she could be so small, and yet so intelligent.

Hogan could see that LeBeau got it too, and the Frenchman's face was flushing purple rapidly, the turmoil building up until he stormed out of the room with a barely audible apology.

Pain worse than any broken rib could cause, filled the Englander and after a few minutes he lowered himself carefully to the bunk beside her and scooped her into his arms.

"You're thinking she was…on that train, the first time it came through town?" Newkirk said softly.

Hogan nodded. "It's possible somebody thought she'd have a better chance on her own, than where the train was headed. Rail traffic always has to slow down going through Hammelburg. It may have been the first chance they had to get her out."

The room was silent for a few minutes before a quiet knock on the door drew Hogan's attention. Olsen stood in the doorway, confused by the heavy silence in the barracks, but not willing to disrupt it either.

"Wilson with you?" Hogan asked quietly, watching Olsen nod. "I'll be right out."

The door closed again and Hogan stood grabbing his hat and coat, taking his time putting them on. He stood with his hand on the doorknob for a long time, wishing there was something he could say. After a few minutes he left quietly, heading out into the compound.

For a long while Newkirk felt like weeping. What the girl had gone through. What it had taken for someone to willingly push her out of a moving train…her mother? Her father? Knowing that abandoning her gave her a better chance than she had in the train car.

He played the past twenty-four hours over and over in his mind, finally understanding why she had latched herself onto him and Carter. Why she had stayed so close, and yet desperately needed to explore. Why a simple flower was so important a gift in return for the food and water. Why smiles meant so much to her.

When he finally loosened his hold, realizing that he might just have been suffocating her with his own need to be a comfort, he realized that she was asleep. He wondered how much she had heard in her short time. How much she had seen. How much of it she actually understood, perhaps even better than any of the adults now in her life.

"I'm sorry, darlin'." He whispered, brushing at the fuzz on her head. "I'm so, so sorry."


	8. Chapter 8

Hogan spent most of the morning arranging a way to cover for the high priority patients that Wilson and Olsen, dressed as Luftwaffe Medical Corps officers, were supposed to be treating in the rec hall. To keep up appearances he scheduled a regular flood of runners taking supplies and food into and out of the rec hall every other hour.

"About how long are we gonna keep this up, Colonel?" Wilson asked after his twelfth game of table tennis. The runners had been doing most of the work with no real patients to tend in the hall.

"Till tonight. I'll have to steal a truck from town and come into camp through the main gate. We'll transfer you and your patients out then, ditch the truck and the dummies, and get back before morning roll call."

Wilson shook his head, ducking his chin to his chest, without responding.

"Sergeant..?" Hogan prompted, waiting.

"Just seems like an awful lot of work, sir. I know why we have to do it, but…"

"Missing civilian life, are you?" Hogan asked, fully aware of just how strange and stressful the double life in the stalag could be.

Wilson gave a sarcastic laugh through his teeth.

"I'll see what I can do to get the war ended faster." Hogan said smirking, then clapped the man on the back. "For now, I've made an official request for you to be allowed to tend to my 'sick' men in Barrack 2. Klink gave the okay."

"Right, sir." Wilson nodded, and the two were soon crossing the compound.

Inside Hogan's quarters Wilson focused his attention on Carter, waking him up gently.

Carter had rolled onto his back in his sleep and Wilson carefully guided him onto his side, pulling at the edges of the tape that held the bandages in place.

"He bled through." Wilson said, peering at his stitches and the swelling and redness around the wound. "But he's doing better than I expected. The penicillin you brought in last night made most of the difference, Colonel."

Hogan said nothing, watching Carter intently as he gradually swam back to wakefulness.

"Carter, how are you feeling, buddy?" Wilson asked once he saw the light colored eyes open.

Carter tried to roll toward the voice but Wilson stopped him, even as Hogan stepped toward the head of the bed and went to one knee.

"You're alright, Carter. You're in my quarters."

"H-how did I get here?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Hogan asked, watching Wilson work out of the corner of his eye.

Carter thought for a few minutes, his eyes squinting. Hogan wasn't sure if it was because the memories were vague or the pain that he had to have been feeling as the painkillers wore off. "Railroad tunnel?" Carter finally tried.

"That's where Kinch and LeBeau found you. Then Wilson and Olsen went out in a truck and brought you and Newkirk into camp."

"Newkirk…he ok?"

"Yeah, Carter. He's fine. I'm about to go yell at him for being out of bed." Wilson said, before he warned Carter that the next step would be painful. Hogan braced the sergeant's back with a hand carefully placed on his uninjured shoulder, and winced as Wilson cleaned the wound with iodine.

A second later, Carter asked, "What are you gonna do?"

Surprised Hogan and Wilson stared at each other, before the medic asked, "You didn't feel that, Carter?"

"Feel what?"

"Oh no…" Wilson whispered, then shifted to the end of the bed, throwing the blanket off Carter's legs. He pulled a pin from his kit and jabbed at the sergeant's toes, waiting for a response that never came.

"Carter, lift up your arm for me." Hogan said, holding his breath until he saw Carter's head move, then one hand, then the other.

"Hey, what's goin' on guys?" Carter was breathing harder, becoming more agitated.

Wilson looked to Hogan, his face washed with distraught helplessness, and Hogan stuttered, "Nothing Carter. You're just fine. But you gotta hold still so that Wilson can finish patching you up."

Carter was silent for a few minutes, facing the wall. He didn't see Hogan pushing Wilson back toward the patient, or pacing away looking pale and shaken.

"You're the one who told me to move my hands, Colonel." Carter said finally, sounding a little put out.

A few minutes later he piped up again, "Hey, you know those pain killers work great, I can't feel a thing."

By then Wilson had applied a fresh bandage and gently rolled the patient onto his back again. He injected the penicillin, but decided against the painkiller for the time being. When he stood, giving Hogan a miserable look, the colonel gestured sharply over his shoulder with his thumb, then said, "You rest easy, Carter. I'll send LeBeau in here with some of the soup from last night."

"Thanks, Colonel." Carter said. "D-don't worry about me, Wilson. I feel just fine."

The minute the door closed Wilson turned, trying to spill half a dozen words out of his mouth at once but Hogan cut him off. "Not here. You have patients to look after in the rec hall, don't you, Doctor?" Hogan said sternly before he led the way back out to the yard.

Once they were out of earshot of Barrack 2, Hogan started talking rapidly. "Once we're inside the rec hall you're going to tell me exactly what just happened, and then you're going to tell me how bad off Carter is. And then you're going to tell me why you didn't say anything last night."

"But Colonel.."

Hogan didn't respond, but the look on his face forced Wilson into silence until the rec hall door had closed behind them. Inside the near empty room were two dummies that had been set up to replace Carter and Newkirk. Both were covered with blankets and surrounded by medical supplies that they would never need. Hogan perched on the edge of one of the tables then crossed his arms and waited.

Wilson gave him a helpless look again, then jerked off the kraut hat and coat angrily. "Colonel, what do you expect from me? I'm a field medic, not a surgeon! I can deal with broken bones, the common cold, and I'm a whiz in triage. That bullet fragmented before it hit Carter. It went in laterally, which means that the metal got very close to his spine before it stopped. There are clusters of nerves there that I couldn't begin to pinpoint.

For all I know the tissue is swelling, putting pressure on the nerves or the spine, and that's why he can't feel the injury or his legs. It's just as possible that I did…damage." Wilson's voice cut off, the fire going out of him as he looked to the floor. He would readily admit if he'd made a mistake. He had probably made a hundred in his military medical career. He could easily blame it on the astonishing dearth of medical equipment and supplies, but-

"Why didn't you bring this up before?" Hogan asked, his voice still deadly flat.

"Colonel!" Wilson began, then started to pace. "Look, I'm _not_ a spy. I'm not an actor. I don't do the weird, psychological voodoo that you do. I can't bamboozle like your men can. I'm just a doctor. Not much of one at that."

"What's your point, Wilson?" Hogan couldn't do much about the anger and irritation in his voice, though he regretted not disguising it.

"My point is that I was so worked up about pretending to be a Kraut yesterday, knowing that Klink or one of the guards could have walked in at any time, my hands were shaking. Worse than ever before. I knew what I was doing was delicate work, and I needed to be steady, so I…"

"So you what-"

"So I took a drink. I had a flask with me from the moment I put on the uniform, just to keep myself from losing my mind. It was one sip. Just one drink."

Hogan sat perfectly still for a few minutes, watching Wilson pace. Weighing the situation carefully, before he asked, "If we were to get Carter to a hospital in the next twenty-four hours, would it help his chances?"

Wilson stopped pacing long enough to pick up one of the table tennis paddles, out of habit, then put it back down again when he reminded himself that he was addressing a senior officer. "With the wide array of _nothing_ that I have at my disposal, Colonel." Wilson said, beyond caring that he was making flagrant use of sarcasm. "...I have no way of knowing if the damage is permanent or not. Both Carter and Newkirk should be in a hospital, sir, but I don't see how that can happen so-"

"That's why I'm here, Wilson. To see that it happens. That's why, when a medic of mine is too nervous to do his job without taking a drink, he should tell me before he does, so that I can make these decisions sooner."

"Yes sir." Wilson said, finally coming to attention and staring at the wall.

"This isn't an easy job, I get that. But I need men who can cut it. If you don't think you qualify, tell me now, Wilson, so that you and I can both stop putting other men's lives at risk. Soon as we have things cleared up here I'll send you back to London and you can start your own private practice, where you can drink all you like." Hogan finished his tirade, blindingly angry, then marched out of the rec hall and headed back for Barrack 2.

Olsen, who had been sitting in the corner playing a game of chess against himself, stepped out into the open as Wilson slumped onto the corner of the ping pong table. It took Wilson a moment to notice him, and he stood, bracing himself for another tirade, figuring he deserved it.

"He's just worried, you know." The man said instead, and Wilson visibly relaxed.

"What, and he thinks I'm not? If I made a mistake I'll do anything I can to fix it but…somethings just can't be fixed." Wilson said, angrily, tossing the paddle in his hands across the room. The wooden racket bounced off a shelf containing throwing darts, spilling them to the ground and taking the loosely balanced shelf with it.


	9. Chapter 9

It took Hogan about twenty minutes to calm down. In between spouts of frustrated anger he'd managed to come up with a skeleton plan to get his wounded man into a hospital. It had no hope of working, but then did his plans ever?

By the time he returned to his quarters he was surprised to see Carter still awake, staring at the bottom of the bunk above him.

"Sergeant, shouldn't you be sleeping?" He asked, noticing a moment later that Wilson hadn't covered Carter's legs up. Hogan bent to settle the blankets in place, hearing Carter sigh.

"I was just thinkin', sir."

"About what?" Hogan settled on the edge of the bed, staring up at his own bunk, lost in the puzzle he was trying to force together.

"About those Hitler Youth guys, and all the stuff that went wrong in town. And about that…that little girl."

"Baby Bear?"

"Is that her name, Colonel?"

"That's what we're calling her."

Carter smirked slightly, "I guess she does kinda look like a bear cub. But sir, I was thinkin' that depending on how old she is, she may have been taught sign language at some point. And if we can figure out how to talk to her-"

Hogan was suddenly staring at him intently and Carter blinked, shifting his gaze to focus on the colonel.

"Sign language?"

"Yes, sir." There was another long pause and Carter's brow furrowed before he said, "Well, she's deaf, sir." His tone implied that it should have been obvious to the colonel and after a few minutes Hogan realized, it _should_ have been.

"How could you have possibly known that, Carter?"

Carter blinked at the confused look he was being given and thought for a moment then drew in a breath to speak. Before he could, the door flew open and a tiny body streaked into the room, going to her hands and knees and scrambling under Carter's bunk as quickly as she could.

LeBeau, out of breath and red in the face, pounded into the room in her wake, soaked from the waist down and fuming. He paused when he noted the colonel and Carter staring at him, then took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

"Are you having a problem, Corporal LeBeau?" Hogan asked.

"Non, Mon Colonel, I am _not_ having a problem. _She_ is having a problem." LeBeau said, stepping into the room checking behind the door, then under the table.

"And that problem is?"

"An extreme aversion to cleanliness." LeBeau snapped, bending to check under Hogan's bunk, before he crossed the room to check under Carter's. When the Frenchman's face appeared under her dark shelter Baby Bear gave a high pitched squeak and scrambled out from under the bed, shooting out the foot of the bunk, and almost making it to the door before Hogan stepped into her path and scooped her up.

To the colonel's surprise the little girl clung tightly to him, her arms trembling, and her lungs and heart working twice as hard as they should have been. "She's terrified, LeBeau."

"If you had gone as long as she has without a bath, you might be terrified too." Louie groused. "When I tried to get her to undress she refused, so I gave her some privacy. When she still wouldn't do it, I tried putting her in the bath, clothes and all. I think I might have got her foot wet before she kicked me and ran back up the ladder."

Hogan's face contorted into a confused frown and sighed softly, "Alright, let me give it a try. Is Newkirk still down in the tunnel?"

LeBeau nodded, "Oui, making clothes, despite the fact that he can hardly stand straight."

"Alright," Hogan sighed, "I'll meet you down there."

LeBeau gave the girl one last wary glance. Once again she was a perfect angel in Hogan's arms.

"Des femmes et des officiers.", Louie mumbled as he headed back into the tunnels.

Hogan once more took a seat on Carter's bunk and balanced the little girl on his knee, facing the injured man. "Carter, you know any of that sign language?"

The wounded man thought for a few moments then raised his arms with a slight wince and crossed them over his chest. With the fingers on his hands slightly spread, he made claws that flashed in towards his shoulders a few times.

Baby Bear watched closely the first time he did it, then mimicked him readily the second time.

"What's that mean?" Hogan asked.

"Bear." Carter said, then awkwardly put his arms together as though he were rocking an infant.

At the familiar sign, Baby Bear perked up, rocking her own imaginary child. She signed "baby bear" with Carter, and the American grinned and pointed to the little girl.

"That's you!" He said, his voice a little weaker.

Hogan winced, knowing the strain Carter's body was under but the sudden break in communication had made a huge difference. Baby Bear was instantly calmer. "One more, Carter. Bath."

Carter thought for a moment then closed his hands loosely into fists with his thumbs extended. He put the knuckles of each hand against his breast then rubbed them up and down as though he were polishing his nails.

Baby Bear watched and made a face, then looked to Hogan with pleading eyes. Astonished as he was that the little girl could understand those vague motions, Hogan forced a stern look onto his face and repeated the gesture Carter had made, insistent.

Baby Bear pouted but returned the sign, or a slightly different variation of it, then repeated her name and something else.

Carter's face brightened and he laughed softly.

"What'd she say?"

"I think she likes the dirt better than the bath, sir."

By the time they reached the bath staging area Hogan felt like he'd gone from the world of seeing and hearing to a world of total darkness. The rift that sudden communication had healed was now a gaping hole again. As much as he wanted to wring the entire language out of Carter the man needed his rest…he needed a miracle.

Hogan had sent two men out to canvas the camp and find anyone else who might know sign language. They were to report to the tunnels immediately.

For the time being he had five words at his disposal and one excited little girl.

She was seven, she had told Carter, and her name was Bijou.

"She's French?" LeBeau asked surprised as Hogan explained.

Kneeling by the tub, Hogan winced at the water that instantly soaked his pant legs. Getting Baby Bear into the tub had involved a series of steps. Playing in the water then sitting in it, still clothed. Once they had managed to get the rag off, they'd found that her skin was covered with a bright red rash that perfectly followed the line of the cloth.

" _That's_ why she fought you, LeBeau." Hogan had said softly and the Frenchman launched into a quiet list of curses in his native tongue.

The first few minutes were painful for her, but Bijou withstood the process, eventually relaxing in the warm water.

For twenty minutes both men worked quietly at their task, finding that Baby Bear readily took over some parts of the process, while staunchly avoiding others. They became so accustomed to the focused silence that when Newkirk came around the corner, the sound of the Englander accidentally kicking over an empty bucket caused both men to jump.

Hogan slung a glance over his shoulder, caught sight of the pale sweating face and rushed to his feet, intercepting Newkirk before he could fall down, pushing the overturned bucket under him. The Englander sank with gritted teeth until his butt was on the bucket and his shoulder against the wall.

"Decide to run a marathon?" Hogan snapped, making sure Newkirk was going to stay where he was before he stepped back.

"Girl had to have something to wear, didn't she?" Newkirk asked, his hands white-knuckled, clutching a collection of fabrics and sewing materials.

"Between you and Carter…" Hogan began, but he couldn't finish the thought.

While the Englander recovered Hogan and LeBeau finished their task, wrapping Bijou in towels and sending her toward the Englander before they filled the empty buckets with the used bath water, carting them back to the tunnel entrance.

By the time they had finished their third trip, Newkirk had the little girl dressed, but still wrapped in the towel to protect her wet head and bare feet from the damp of the tunnel.

Newkirk's nose had started bleeding again, but he'd staunched the flow of blood with a spare piece of cloth, careful to hide any spots of crimson. As Louie went above with one of the pails of water, intent on dumping it where it would draw the least amount of attention, Hogan knelt in front of the Englishman.

"What happened?"

"Had a bit of trouble gettin' her dressed. S'accident. Knocked her head into me nose."

Bijou looked like she might have been crying and Hogan sighed wishing he could tell her that everything would be ok. He wished he believed it himself.

"She needs shoes. Can't have her lookin' like an urchin with what she's got on."

"She's wearing a towel.." Hogan said.

"Nah sir.." Newkirk smirked, and gently tugged at the towel until Baby Bear let go of the folds, and gave a soft, "Tada!"

Hogan couldn't help but smile slowly when he saw what she wore. Baby Bear returned the expression shyly.

"Figured if she was found out somehow, she'd do better dressed that way...than with flounces and ruffles and the like." Newkirk cleared his throat, his voice fading a little as he trailed off.

"Good job, Newkirk."

"Thank you…Col-"

"Newkirk?" Hogan turned in time to catch the Englander as he slumped against the wall. He was steadying the nearly unconscious man on the bucket when the tunnel entrance snapped shut, and LeBeau jogged breathless into view.

"Colonel Hogan, Wilson just stormed into Barracks 2 with Klink and two of the guards. They have a truck outside the barracks and the guards are putting Carter on a stretcher."

"What!?"

LeBeau's eyes were wide, taking in Bijou and her unusual outfit, Newkirk's pale face and boneless stature. The colonel looked just about as alarmed as Carter had, confirming for the Frenchman that this wasn't a part of the officer's plan. As Hogan stood, brushing past him, LeBeau added, "I had to close the entrance, sir. Klink is probably standing right in front of the bunk bed."

Frustrated Hogan reversed directions. "Did Wilson happen to mention why he's taking Carter out of camp?"

"There wasn't time!"

"Was Olsen with him?"

"Oui, talking to Commandant Klink."

"They've both snapped!" Hogan barked, pacing so much that he was churning up a thin layer of mud on the tunnel floor. A moment later Newkirk moaned and Hogan turned his attention back to the Englander, yanking at the back of his shirt to get a look at the bruising over his ribs.

"Is it worse?" LeBeau asked.

"Yeah, it's worse."

"What do we do?"

Hogan squatted on his haunches for a few moments before he finally settled on the dirt floor. In seconds he had a barefooted, clean smelling German "boy" in his lap, wet hair pressed against his chest.

"Nothing." Hogan finally said, bitterly.


	10. Chapter 10

The men were practically rioting when Hogan made it out of the tunnel. Newkirk was unconscious and carried into Hogan's quarters by two of the prisoners, with Bijou hot on their trail.

"Kinch, what the hell happened?"

"Wilson and Olsen came in spouting something about needing Carter to save the "general's" life. Olsen was doing most of the talking and Wilson was white as a sheet, but he wouldn't look at me or talk to me. When we tried to stop them, Klink was so flustered he had his guards hold us at gunpoint while we loaded Carter onto the truck."

"Where's the truck now?"

"Still in the yard. Klink insisted on doing the paperwork to release Carter to the hospital."

The staff sergeant's words followed him out into the compound, and Hogan could feel the presence of the bigger man as they both stormed out into the yard. Two of the camp guards stood by the truck waiting, and Hogan could see a flash of a uniform in the back.

"Alright, Kinch, do everything you can to get Wilson off that truck. Newkirk is in bad shape. If Carter's going, Newkirk should too."

"Got it, Colonel." Kinch confirmed, even though he didn't. The slow build to madness over the past twenty-four hours was coming to a head and Kinch didn't know what or who would blow up first.

He approached the truck slowly, nodding to each of the guards, knowing that neither of them was the lovable Schultz and they weren't going to let him wander up to a German transport vehicle.

"Hey, Doc!" Kinch shouted, from ten feet away. He saw Wilson flinch and look up, then quickly look away. "Hey, Doc, what about that other patient. He's lookin' pretty bad."

That got Wilson's attention again and this time the man squinted at the tall staff sergeant before stepping down from the truck. Both the guards reacted, surprised, one of them spouting hesitant instructions in German. Wilson, pale and shaking, waved them off and straightened his jacket, trying to look nonchalant as he approached the POW.

"I know he's mad, Kinch, but this is the only way I can fix things. Carter has to get to the hospital, and I can't let Hogan stop me." Wilson whispered once he was close enough to the tall sergeant to be heard.

"He's not tryin' to stop ya, even if he is hoppin' mad. Newkirk just came up from the tunnels, and he's lookin' worse."

"His ribs?"

"I don't know. He's unconscious in the colonel's quarters. Hogan says he needs to go too, if possible."

Wilson took in a quivering breath and looked to the kommandant's office before he nodded to the barracks. "My German is rotten, Olsen's been covering for me. If you can get those two to the barracks with a stretcher, we can move Newkirk on board." Wilson said, gesturing vaguely towards the two guards.

Kinch nodded, slapping Wilson's back before they parted ways, Wilson ducking into the barracks and Kinch anxiously telling the soldiers that the doctor needed their help.

Inside Klink's office Hogan was struggling to maintain a delicate balance.

"We can fill out the necessary papers en route, Kommandant." Olsen was saying, casting occasional furtive glances to the officer that he knew he was in complete defiance of.

" _Don't_ fill out papers, and _don't_ let them do this, Kommandant! It's against the Prisoner of War Convention to force prisoners to submit to medical procedures. Especially to the benefit of German officers."

"Hogan, you have no say in the matter. You are dismissed." Klink returned, an annoyed whine to his voice. He turned on the Luftwaffe officer next, his tone immediately gaining an ounce or two of respect. "Herr Doctor, I run a tight camp. I have never had an escape and-"

"And your no escape record will not matter if General Newkirkenheimscheidt dies while you fiddle with transfer forms." Olsen cut in.

"Newkirkenheimscheidt...is that even a real name?" Hogan interrupted.

"Hogan..!" Klink bellowed, rising from his chair. The minute his forearms left the surface of the papers he was working on, Olsen reached in and snatched them up, creasing most of them as he shoved them into the doctor's bag he was carrying.

"Thank you, Herr Colonel. Hopefully I will not have to add an official reprimand to these papers once we reach the hospital."

"But Doctor, I haven't finished-"

"The Red Cross is going to hear about this, and the prison commission." Hogan shouted over the pandemonium, following Olsen and Klink out of the office.

"What is this-!?" Klink's squeaked protest came a few seconds later as he walked out into the compound in time to see a second prisoner being loaded into the back of the truck.

Olsen was giving Hogan a confused look even as the colonel turned on him to protest again. "This man is worse than the Gestapo, Colonel. He hasn't even explained what he wants my men for."

"That's true, Doctor, you never specified the reason for needing these prisoners."

"What, did you need to start up a new branch of the blood bank?" Hogan quipped, turning enough so that he could verify that Newkirk was safely loaded on the truck. He caught Kinch's thumbs-up a second before a blur of motion distracted him. A very small blur of motion.

"Doctor, I cannot allow this!" Klink began, baffled."Not without official authorization from-ow!"

The stomp to Klink's foot turned the commandant around so that he missed the little girl making it to the back of the truck where Wilson hoisted her into the bed, having no other place to put her. By the time the two guards returned to the back of the truck the gate was up, Bijou hidden.

Klink was fuming, still struggling to overcome the unexpected pain of a crushed instep. Hogan pushed Olsen hard in the direction of the truck giving quick, harsh orders under his breath.

By the time Klink recovered, his face white with anger, the truck was already pulling toward the gates, Olsen jogging to catch up with it.

"Hogan." Klink trembled, limping toward the American colonel who looked completely unmoved by the situation. "You did that on purpose."

"Yes, sir. I did." Hogan said.

"Don't deny it! You've gone too far. No one is permitted to disrespec- oh."

"One week in the cooler, sir?"

"At the very least." Klink bit out, before he turned to address the doctor...who was no longer there. Steaming, Klink shouted for the gaurds, demanding that they take the colonel directly to the cooler, before he stomped, limping, back into his office.

* * *

That night, released from his medical leave, Schultz was back on duty, guarding the colonel in the cooler. After a full day of rest, and plenty to eat, the sergeant was in a good mood. His mood improved all the more when he caught the whiff of apple strudel coming through the window behind him on the wall. In the quiet darkness, Schultz snuck up to the cell door, and peered in to make sure that the colonel was still there, before he left the cooler in search of the little Frenchman.

A minute after Schultz departed, the cell suddenly contained two men instead of one.

Kinch, arriving with Hogan's dinner, entered the small room through a secret door and moved to the window to keep an eye out for Schultz's return.

"Hey, Kinch. What did Klink do after he put me in the cooler?" Hogan asked, eyeing the food that the staff sergeant had brought without the appetite to eat it.

"Called up General Burkhalter to complain about the Luftwaffe men stealing his prisoners. About halfway through Klink trying to spell Newkirkenhiemschiedt, Burkhalter hung up on him."

Hogan rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that the rediculous name Olsen had come up with, actually did them a favor in the end. "Any word from Olsen or Wilson?"

Kinchloe shook his head, the small smile dropping a little. "No sir. I don't know what they were thinking, but-"

Hogan cut the sergeant off gently with a hand in the air. He knew how protective Kinch could be of the non-coms. It was his job to look out for the other men as the senior NCO in the camp. But he'd had enough time in the past few hours to think about the rapid events that lead up to Wilson's decision. "Don't worry about it, Kinch. I pushed Wilson too far."

"I don't know about that..."

Hogan stood, pacing slowly, his hands on his hips. "No, I exposed another weakness in our organization that I didn't expect. I have so many good con men in the camp, I naturally assumed that everybody has that talent. It never occurred to me that Wilson wouldn't be comfortable with it. I just shoved him into a uniform, and like a good soldier he did what I told him to do."

"Yes, sir. But why would-"

"He told me he had to take a drink to be calm enough to help Carter. Whether that had anything to do with it or not, Carter is...he's in trouble."

"He managed to get them both outta camp. Hopefully Olsen can get them into the hospital."

"Yeah, and hopefully Klink doesn't start digging any deeper than he already has. There's not much I can do to distract him while I'm stuck in here."

"And...Baby Bear, sir?"

Hogan finally sat again and sighed. "I don't know."

"Schultz is comin' back."

"Alright. Everybody lay low for now. Monitor Klink's office at all times possible, and do what you can to establish contact with Wilson and Olsen."

"Will do, Colonel." Kinch confirmed as he ducked into the tunnel opening, taking the barely touched food with him. He hesitated before he left, finally saying, "They'll be alright."

"If the good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise. Get goin', Kinch."

* * *

TBC - I will add more chapters soon.


	11. Chapter 11

"I told you I saw something shining in the road didn't I? I said swerve, didn't I!?" Wilson screeched yet again, pacing on the rough road with his flashlight pointed in the distance instead of helping with the warped jack. "Unbelievable. This is…unbeli-"

"Wilson, so help me, if you don't get over here and start cranking I'm gonna lay you out with this tire iron and leave you here!" Olsen barked, only his legs sticking out from under the truck that still leaned dangerously toward the ground on a deflated tire.

Olsen heard Wilson's jack boots scraping on the gravel, then the rustle of clothing as the man went to his knees again in the dirt and started grunting over the impossible handle. It took four minutes of swearing and straining to gain an inch. Olsen spent most of his breath cursing Klink for being too cheap to keep new, working jacks in all the trucks.

Five minutes later and Olsen was able to slide the last two-by-four onto the stack propping the truck up far enough, hopefully, to lever the flat tire off and the new tire on.

"That's not gonna move is it?" Wilson asked, swinging his flashlight beam low enough to eye the stack.

Olsen flinched away from the beam and gave him a perturbed look instead of answering. Wriggling out from under the truck he grabbed the tire they'd already wrestled out of the back."It's a flat tire. I don't know what you're so worked up about."

"You don't- It's past dark, and we're American POWs in a stolen German truck, in the middle of enemy territory with two wounded men who can't defend themselves. And a kid besides!"

"Hey!" A voice shouted annoyed from the truck. "We can defend ourselves!"

"With what?" Wilson countered wincing at his own tone, but too worked up to be kind anymore.

Olsen swatted the back of his hand at Wilson's chest and said, "We're Luftwaffe officers with medical corp badges, and a…perfectly good excuse for being on this road."

"We don't have any papers or orders or anything." Wilson argued, pacing nervously away from the truck until he could send his flashlight beam around the bend in the road, then back again.

"Details…" Olsen muttered, concentrating on wrestling with the dead wheel.

"Hey, Olsen!" The voice from the back of the truck called again. "You sure you don't need my help?"

"You stay on that cot and don't move, Carter." Wilson shouted angrily, then finally realized that Olsen was still struggling and stepped in to help the man. Together they managed to lift the flattened wheel free and placed the new tire with relative ease.

"Cranky sod, isn't he?" Another voice rose over the grunting and as Olsen tightened the bolts Wilson stood and shuffled to the back of the truck shining his light into the dark recesses.

The beam flashed briefly off of Carter's pale face, then rested square in Newkirk's line of sight raising a groan of protest from the wounded man before his hand flew up to shield his now temporarily blinded eyes.

"Newkirk, how are you feeling?"

"Blind..." the Brit muttered, through a pained grunt.

Wilson was about to respond when he heard the squeal of a tire echoing distantly. Adrenaline spiked through him and he shone his light back toward the bend in the road, "There's a car coming!"

"So…" Olsen said, concentrating on one bolt that didn't want to go on.

"So!? So what do we do?"

Olsen gritted his teeth, forcing the bolt tighter until he felt the strained threads snap. The wrench jumped, slicing open his finger from the second knuckle to the joint where finger met hand. It hurt and he shouted, jumping to his feet and backing away from the truck.

At the same time Wilson had swung his flashlight beam back across the truck and noticed Carter trying to escape the confines of his cot. He was fully prepared to force the man back into bed when Olsen gave his shout and jumped away from the stalled military vehicle and into the path of the car that had just swerved to avoid the broken down truck.

The car was moving too fast, the driver was panicked, but he managed to miss Olsen, even as Wilson jolted and grabbed the front of the sergeant's coat, yanking him to safety. The car went off the road, kicking up a spray of dirt, headlights bouncing wildly. It bumped down the slight decline then came to a rest with a squeal of brakes.

"What were you thinkin'?" Wilson shouted, his body vibrating now in reaction to the adrenaline rush.

"I hurt my hand." Olsen hissed, reaching for his kerchief so that he could wrap it around the bleeding wound on his finger.

Wilson was silent for a few minutes, panting hard as he stared at the back of the truck, then stepped in to look at Olsen's wounded hand.

"I gotta go make sure they're ok." The medic said a second later, his feet already taking him down the hill.

"Are you crazy? A minute ago you were whining about a flat tire, now you want to involve yourself with German civilians?" Olsen's words fell on deaf ears as he watched Wilson trip down the steep hill. "Hey, Carter!"

"Yeah?"

"You guys alright in there?"

"Uh…sorta." Carter said with a soft grunt.

"Stay put, we'll be heading out in a minute." Olsen said, then turned back to the wheel, tightening the rest of the bolts by feel, before he knocked over the stack of wood and released the jack. Before Olsen could leave the truck to head down the hillside he caught sight of Wilson backing hurriedly away from the crashed car.

Moments later the medic was scrambling back up the hill shouting for Olsen to start the engine.

"We gotta go! We gotta go right now." Wilson shouted scooping to gather the scattered tools and tossing them in the back.

"Wilson, what-" But Olsen was cut off by the medic's, "Aww…Carter."

Rounding the truck he was surprised to find Carter lying on the truck bed, struggling with deadened legs to get back onto his cot. Newkirk was working on getting upright and Baby Bear was doing her best to help the American sergeant.

"Carter, what happened?"

"I was just tryin' to help, and I got up…but my legs wouldn't work. I can't feel 'em.." Carter said, the panick slowly building in his tone. The wound on his back was stretching his face with pain and he could barely hold himself up off the floor, let alone get himself into the cot. His legs were twisted behind him in a way that betrayed his leverage.

"What about that car, Wilson?" Olsen demanded tossing the last of the supplies into the back of the truck even as Wilson climbed into the back to help Carter onto the cot.

"That car is full of Nazi's, now will you get in the front and drive?"

"We're in the middle of Germany, what did you expect to find? Circus clowns?" Olsen muttered to himself, securing the truck hatch before he jogged to the cab and climbed in. The wound on his hand was beginning to throb, and it had done a good job of soaking through the kerchief he'd applied, but there wasn't time to worry about it.

Olsen turned the engine over, threw the truck into gear and guided the vehicle forward through the darkness.

* * *

About an hour after morning roll call the following morning, Hogan watched as Klink left his quarters and bustled angrily to the building in which the cooler sat. After a brisk conversation with the guard the commandant of the camp came to visit, clearly in a fury.

"Colonel Hogan, I would like an explanation from you."

Reclining on the hard bench that served as a bed, Hogan gave Klink the most vague, clueless look in his arsenal and asked, "Explanation, Colonel? For what?"

"For what? For the missing men, Sergeant's Olsen and Wilson. You're men claimed that they went with Carter and Newkirk. They weren't given permission."

Hogan poured on a little anger and rose to his feet. "If you'll recall, Colonel, those two quack doctors didn't have _my_ permission to take _any_ of my men. If Wilson and Olsen went with them it was to protect my men from whatever sadistic intentions those doctors had for them."

"Hogan! You will refrain from making hateful accusations."

"You're worried about my language and four of your prisoners are missing. You don't even know what hospital they were taken to."

"It can only have been the hospital in Hammelburg." Klink bit back, straightening his spine a little.

"Alright, what room are they staying in?"

"I...I..I-."

"You see! Permission to visit my men and make sure they are being treated humanely."

"Denied!" Klink snapped and turned to the door.

"Colonel, all it takes is one word about the way those men left camp and you're under investigation. They'll want to know why the doctors were in camp in the first place. Why they were using the recreation hall. They'll want to know who those two important patients were."

"Let them investigate. I have nothing to tell them."

"And you don't see that as a problem?"

Klink paused, backtracking the conversation, trying to decide where he had gone wrong. Hogan watched him do it and waited for the glimmer of the first light bulb before he nodded his head.

"That's right, Colonel. What good are you as a camp commandant if anybody and everybody can waltz into camp, take over your rec hall without your permission, then take one of your trucks and four of your prisoners and leave camp again!"

"Better than if I let my senior POW out of the camp so that _he_ could escape too!"

"Let me go with Schultz into town, we'll find the doctors and make sure they sign the appropriate forms. I'll reassure myself that my men are being cared for, and you'll have everything in good order. I promise I won't escape."

"You!? Why should _you_ go?" Klink stiffened angrily. " _I_ will go. Those doctors think they can make a fool of me?" Klink paced away then jumped back a step. "Nobody makes a fool of Klink. I will track down those men, and you…you will remain in this cooler until you have learned the proper respect for your superiors."

"Good." Hogan said, "That will give me time to draft my complaint to the Red Cross."

Klink stiffened, his back turned to Hogan, his hand going still on the unlocked cell door.

"Don't worry, Commandant. I'll mail you a copy if you don't make it back..." Hogan finished, "By way of Minsk."

Ten minutes later Colonel Hogan watched Klink step into the back seat of his staff car then ducked into the tunnel entrance that led from the cooler to the nerve center of the underground of Stalag 13.


	12. Chapter 12

"What do you mean they aren't there?" Hogan demanded loudly, pacing agitated around the small circle of dust he'd created in the tunnel.

"Max said he camped out at the hospital all night. There were ten patients admitted. Two drunk soldiers from the troops parked in town, four Hitler-Jugend that had been involved in an accident and a group of sick children from an orphanage. No Luftwaffe doctors showed up, and no American prisoners." Kinch repeated the detailed message he'd spent twenty minutes getting out of Max through complicated code.

The store owner wasn't the fastest at the key, and tended to misspell things when he was in a hurry.

"It doesn't make sense. They _have_ to be there. Where else could they have gone?" LeBeau asked from the stool on which he had been forced to perch to keep out of Hogan's path.

"Hitler Youth, Abwher soldiers right there in the hospital. With that much activity in town I can see Wilson shying away from the hospital, but not Olsen." Hogan grumbled. A second later he snapped his fingers. "And I just sent Klink outta camp on their trail."

"He's gonna flip when he doesn't find them in Hammelburg." Kinch remarked exchanging a glance with the Frenchman.

"Let's just hope he panics and comes back here, instead of running to Burkhalter." Hogan started pacing again.

As the group grew quiet the ticking of the wireless set filled the tunnel and Kinch turned to the key, listening and responding with one hand, and jotting down notes with the other.

Leaning over his shoulder, LeBeau translated the chicken scratches. "Hospital clerk reports…Luftwaffe officers…arrived 1900 hours last night. Two unidentified patients. Officers were told there were no rooms…argued….departed 0100 hours."

"No room at the inn so they went looking for a stable." Hogan snapped, hands on his hips and pacing again. "If they left at 0100 hours last night they could be anywhere by now!" He shook his head, feeling the headache that had been lingering at the back of his skull roaring to the front. "Olsen's getting way to comfortable outside of camp." He said then was silent, before he said, "The least they coulda done was phoned in before leaving. Stopped at the Hofbrau, or even come back here!"

The key finally chattered to a halt and Kinch threw the headset down in frustration, crossing his arms, his biceps and shoulder muscles bulging menacingly. "What are those guys thinkin?"

"What was _I_ thinking?" Hogan muttered, shaking his head at himself. He had begun to replay the past forty-eight hours over in his head realizing the gaping mistake that he had made from the beginning.

Kinch and LeBeau had exchanged a disturbed glance. "What are you talking about, Colonel?" Kinch finally asked carefully.

Hogan vaguely waved a hand, as if erasing a chalkboard. Later, he thought. "Kinch, stay on the radio. Anything you hear from anybody, let me know right away."

The staff sergeant didn't respond. He hadn't needed to be told, and Hogan didn't need a confirmation.

* * *

It was morning. The sun was rising and Olsen's eyes were burning as he stared at the dead gauges in front of him. "The jack isn't the only thing Klink hasn't had fixed on this stupid truck." He grunted letting the vehicle jolt against the brakes somewhere on a country lane north east of Hammelburg.

The sudden stop and the anger in Olsen's voice woke Wilson, and disturbed Baby Bear, from the rare sleep they had managed in the passenger seat.

While the little girl glanced around, blinking tiredly, Wilson squinted at the non-descript countryside. "What's goin' on? Are we there yet?" A yawn escaped, then he added. "Are we anywhere yet?"

Olsen stared at the gas gauge, the needle still stubbornly pointed at the middle most mark between _voll_ and _leer_. The engine had been gargling fumes a moment ago, then ground to a halt on the country road, the truck refusing to move another meter.

"Olsen..."

"Weranouttagas."

Wilson hoped he'd heard wrong, but asked for clarification just in case and regretted it instantly. "We ran out of gas!?"

Olsen sneered, set the emergency brake and stepped out of the truck, slamming the door as hard as he could before he stomped to the back to retrieve the gas cans.

"Olsen! What do you think you're…oh no! You are not leaving me here with the truck in the middle of nowhere."

"You have to stay with Carter and Newkirk, and somebody has to go get gas. It's a ten or fifteen mile walk back to the nearest town. Unless you've got a spare motorcycle hidden in your pockets, I'm gonna have to go for a hike."

Baby Bear rounded the back of the truck in a rush, following closely behind Wilson and sticking to his side.

"We should never have left camp." The medic moaned, wishing it could be true. This was so far out of his element, that by cyclical rights he should have been back _in_ his element.

"Carter and Newkirk were hurt. We had to get them to a hospital."

"Then we should have stayed in Hammelburg!"

"Yeah sure, stay in Hammelburg. With troops in town watching everything coming and going." Olsen waited for some response from Wilson, and pressed his point when the medic said nothing. " _And_ they stuck Newkirk and Carter on beds in the hallway."

Wilson made a face, reddening in response to the fit of anger THAT event had inspired.

"Besides Carter recognized those Hitler-Jugend that we ran off the road. It wouldn't have taken long for them to realize who the only two American prisoners in the hospital were."

"They weren't conscious!" Wilson argued in a vain attempt to play Devil's advocate.

"Yet...You said yourself they didn't look too bad off." Olsen countered, the empty cans clanging together. "It wouldn't have taken more than a few hours before they were being walked back out of the hospital, probably right past our guys. They would've recognized either one of them right away given half a chance."

As the argument dwindled Wilson backed a few steps away and glanced toward the stalled truck in time to realize that Baby Bear had already climbed into the back and was playing nurse for Carter and Newkirk.

"You're sure there isn't a closer town up ahead?" Wilson finally offered.

Olsen sighed then gestured toward the cab, "Why don't you grab the map outta the front seat."

As Wilson dashed back to the cab, Olsen lowered the tailgate and stepped up into the truck leaning over the attentive seven-year-old to check on Carter first. Somehow the man managed to sleep despite the constant jouncing of the truck, and was unconscious but breathing steadily. Baby Bear had tucked the blankets tightly around him, bringing the edge of the blanket up just under his chin.

When Baby Bear and Olsen switched patients they found that Newkirk was again awake.

"Hey Peter, welcome back to the world of the living."

Newkirk groaned softly and closed his barely open eyes. "I was hopin' this was a nightmare."

"It _is_ a nightmare. Unfortunately it's also reality. How ya feelin?"

"D'rather not say." Carefully the injured man turned his head and came nose to nose with Baby Bear's concerned pout and he smirked despite the weariness. "Hey, Darlin'"

From there his eyes traveled to the daylight beyond the canvas of the truck, Olsen still in his uniform, and the gas cans lined up on the edge of the truck bay. "Let me see if I can guess…"

Before Newkirk could say anything else Wilson appeared with the map fluttering behind him and the Brit groaned again.

"Is he awake?"

"Yeah, and grumpy. Here let me see that." Swiftly Olsen and Wilson traded places, Wilson immediately checking blood pressure and heart rate before he coaxed Newkirk into rolling on his side.

Before Wilson could roll him back however, Newkirk insisted on being allowed to sit up. "I sleep any longer, you'll need bleedin' Prince Charmin' to wake me up."

Wilson wasn't too pleased with the idea but he helped Newkirk sit up, the corporal still too weak to do it on his own. Peter leaned back against the support of the side of the truck, coughing lightly and bracing his aching rib cage with one hand, while he watched Olsen pour earnestly over the map.

"Lost are we?"

"I know exactly where we are." Olsen said, his voice distracted as he measured distances with his thumbnail.

"And that is?"

"Middle of Germany."

"You can imagine my relief."

"Ten miles, give or take that way…" Olsen said, pointing vaguely to the road ahead. "There's a tiny little dot on the map."

Wilson blinked at the entirely un-reassuring news and sarcastically said, "You want to blow on it, make sure it isn't a speck of dirt or something?"

"If it's a speck of dirt, somebody named it." Olsen returned. "The first car I come across I'll try to flag down but I may be gone a while."

"Wouldn't it be better if we stuck together. We could wait here for a car and-"

Already Olsen was shaking his head no and Wilson bristled. "You know, I get that you like being the lone wolf hero, but it's just possible that this time sticking together is the better plan."

"This time!? What do you mean, this time? We've been together since we left camp, Wilson."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

When Olsen continued to give him a blank look Wilson forced a sigh in a rush and said, "You're the outside man. You spend entire weeks sometimes on the outside, in Hammelburg and God knows where. I get it, you like to be on your own. But I can't do this without you, Olsen. I don't speak the language like you do. I won't be able to talk my way out of anything if somebody stops by the truck and-"

"Maybe you should start learning. How long have you been in Germany anyway?"

"I never intended to have to learn the language. I'm not a spy. I wasn't _assigned._ I got shot down."

"So did I mate." Olsen countered. "I was in that prison camp long before you or Colonel Hogan. I learned everything I could so that I could escape."

"Cause that's how you survive being a POW, Wilson." Newkirk added, softly.

Olsen nodded. "You learn, you take risks, and you never stop trying. This'll be good for ya." With a smirk the sergeant hopped down and retrieved the empty cans.

"Wait a minute. What's the name of the town?"

"Bad something..." Olsen said, then leaned back toward the map, finding the speck and squinting at the smudged lettering. "Bad Salzungen." Olsen read, then watched amused as Wilson tried to repeat the name.

"Best of luck with that buddy." He said cheerily, slapping Wilson on the back, before he grabbed the empty gas cans and started down the road.

Wilson was about to go after him when he heard the first hard cough coming from his patient. By the time he had found and helped Newkirk drink from a canteen Olsen was already out of sight.

* * *

TBC


End file.
